


When Even Magic Can't Save You

by MiaGhost



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst, Awkwardness, Backgrounds, Bars and Pubs, Cheeky annoying Gawain, Clubbing, Depression, F/M, Flirting, Grief/Mourning, History, Karaoke, M/M, Mentions of Death, Panic Attacks, Protective!Percival, Slow Build, Terminal Illnesses, death talk, denied attraction, serious moments
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-06-05 03:43:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 23,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6687850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiaGhost/pseuds/MiaGhost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin has been diagnosed with an untreatable condition which he either refuses to or can't be bothered to learn the name of. His Mother is distraught and as she begins to lose her faith in, and love for, the world she lives in, Merlin's uncle Giaus, the strong one in the family, struggles with his own depression. Merlin comforts them as best he can but he just doesn't really seem to care about his condition. He's out all night, euphoric in the anonymity that the night affords him, and he's lost to an inner rebellion. His small family is blown apart by this grenade, this bombshell which is him, and he is nudging at the pieces but is too consumed in chasing oblivion to piece them together again. He doesn't need or want, to be saved.</p><p>Enter Arthur, who infuriates Merlin but somehow awakens his long-dormant curiosity. Arthur pushes an interest in life back into Merlin, breathes for him a new perspective.</p><p>And of course, falls slowly in love with him. Full of a likely dose of their usual fluff, with some serious themes.(T for themes. Will be a long fic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When he was here, enveloped in the darkness, surrounded by strangers who were faraway islands in the ocean of the music, Merlin allowed himself to relax into the safe and familiar shroud of anonymity. The beat pulsed through his entire body, making every molecule and muscle thrum with a sedate energy that Merlin's inner _Magika_ welcomed like a lost love. Merlin was never sure when his eyes were open or closed, slow flashes of deep purple and blue strobing revealing brief snatches of blurred faces, as he sank into the embrace of this, his sanctuary.

Here there was no future planning, no past, no next step, goal or hopeful outcome. Merlin was simply existing in the music, each beat the only proof that he existed at all, and really, what sort of proof was that? His breathing was lazy, deep as the push and pull of the music, the slumber of a giant beast in each pulse and each push. It was dream-like, dark and endless, a slow, heady sort of bliss that seeped into every inch, every bone and hair and blood vessel of his body, and Merlin was at peace there, in the dark, in his anonymous ocean.

It was an almost impossible torture to extract the beat from his blood enough to leave the dance floor, his body flowing to the bar as if transcendental. The heady sensation of breathing underwater remained and had Merlin been alert and enough of himself he would have felt gratitude. But not being aware was really the point, wasn't it?

As it was he simply _existed_ , although the harsh white light ringing the lowered bar ceiling and circling the countertop provided an edge to his existence that Merlin could use as a purchase to form enough words from the fabric of his breath to order a drink. Merlin closed his eyes and just existed some more, and when his next slow and heavy thought came, his body was in the embrace of the dance floor again, a half-full glass in hand that he barely registered, even subconsciously. He was again swaying on the seabed that was his saviour, glorious and oblivious to the earthly world, a presence in form if not soul.

It was this existence, this version of Merlin that was there when he checked out and dissolved into that push and pull beat that every cell gloried in. It was in this state, this version, that Merlin snagged himself his human embraces.

Never anything, each experience brief; long, hot kisses on the dance floor, a warm earthly body to anchor him in life again, fleetingly. Merlin did not keep track, and much of the time these partners were as unregistered as his glass, which he had at some point emptied without the burdening thought process of consciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

 

It was while Merlin was existing in that, his only peace, some night or other, (did the day matter? They were all the same, all one, all _nothing_ ) that Arthur entered into Merlin's orbit. He crossed the endlessness of his ocean and took hold of Merlin in a gesture of the many before him, but with an exactly opposite effect.  
Where that touch, one hand closed around his forearm, had always registered almost negligibly on the radar that ruled him, Arthur's touch was jarring, an almost blinding shock that crashed his system and sent him hurtling back into his own physical, finite body with a piercing preciseness that caused him to gasp like a drowning man as his eyes flew open and his whole body burned in a surprise that was really only pain.

Arthur, unaware and half-way to drunk, was leaning in and speaking in that shouting way of dark, loud places, and yet Merlin wasn't hearing, his ears still full of water while his brain logged back in and tried to catch up.  
With the reality of the physical world crashing down and surrounding him, Merlin began to feel that suffocating burning feeling that life outside of his push and pull beat always thrust upon him. His heart rate spiked, his lungs working harder to adjust to breathing what felt like steam after the ease of his ocean.

The beat was suddenly just noise which over-powered his senses with the aid of the stench of sweat and humanity that always felt so comforting when he wasn't awake in his body. Merlin caught hold of reality with his fingers and reluctantly grasped tightly, hauling himself up onto that ledge before he floated off in that now feared in-between.

Arthur's eyes registered with Merlin's brain at the exact moment his gorge rose and he realised he needed _Out_. He turned and launched himself through the bodies, suddenly so many and not faraway but close close close and pushing closer and Merlin needed _outside_ like his lungs needed air.  
Pushing past the bouncers with the last of his strength, Merlin emptied his meagre stomach contents all over the decorative plant structure by the entrance and barely connected his backside with the pavement before he blacked out.

Arthur had pushed through the crowded dance floor and rounded the doorway and just barely stopped by Merlin's feet by the time Merlin opened his eyes. The biggest of the two bouncers on duty was crouched over Merlin in an almost comical manner which would have been cause for hilarity if Merlin had been in the laughing mood. As the ridiculously muscular form offered him an arm, Merlin began simultaneously pulling himself up and dry-heaving over his shoulder.

"You okay?"

Merlin winced as actual spoken words assaulted his ears and grounded him decisively in his body. The bouncer flashed a brief, sympathetic and apologetic grimace before entering neutral.  
His line of work required the public to think he actually _was_ tough as nails as well as looking it, and the outside of the club was still subject to stragglers from town hopeful for entrance.

"Yeah, Perce. I'm fine, i'm fine. Bit of a sensory overload, that's all. I'm sorry to disappoint you."

The bouncer frowned and clicked his tongue.

"You know you should be being more careful, you dolt."

Merlin smiled, a rare as rare occurrence.  
Rarer still because it was genuine.

"I know. Thanks, though."

This time the larger man relented and smiled properly in reply.

"Just head home now Mer, best not push it tonight."

Merlin sighed, but his eyes spoke his relenting. With a half-hearted wave, He headed off, no coat even though it was brisk out, and Arthur stood in surprised silence and watched his lanky form disappear down the street, and continued to watch until he turned out of sight. Bemused, he turned back to the doorway, where Percival had resumed his post.  
Not too drunk to realise that waiting in line behind the half dozen stragglers was a better plan than waving his wristband loudly in people's faces, Arthur shivered a little in the cold while he waited his turn.


	3. Chapter 3

"Well, if it isn't the Pendragon himself, Mr Big Shot from the city come to mingle with the locals, have you?" grinned the biggest of the two bouncers, and Arthur rolled his eyes as he displayed his wrist to the man.

"Ha, ha, Percival. Nice to see you too."

In response, the bouncer merely grinned wider and stepped aside. Arthur stepped with him, being careful to clear the entrance so he wouldn't tick anyone off. Percival simply raised an eyebrow expectantly. Arthur dove right in.

"Who was that?"

Percival looked a little confused but humoured his old friend, thumbing the threshold behind him.

"The blonde or the brunette? Hate to disappoint the King, but they come together. You're not the only bi in the club, i'm afraid."

Arthur shook his head with annoyance.

"No, no, not them. The bloke, the one out here puking his guts up. You two seemed friendly."

Percival's friendly countenance disappeared behind a solid frown.

"No." was all he said.

Arthur raised his eyes in disbelief.

" _No?"_

The taller man crossed his arms and looked even sterner than usual, if such a thing were possible. Into people other than his closest friends, he instilled a genuine fear. It didn't work on Arthur, most of the time, and certainly not when he was drunk, because drunk Arthur was a little cockier than usual, and sober Arthur could be cocky as fuck.

"Waow, he's got you good, chill out, okay."

Percival rolled his eyes, and managed to look even meaner.

"Just don't go there. Not one step. Not an inch. No way. Got it?"

Arthur nodded, even as his brow furrowed and he tried to work Percival out. Despite the common misconception, Percival was the biggest softie Arthur had ever met. The guy fed every stray thing he could get his hands on for pete's sake, and bottle - fed orphaned kittens.  
He had once performed an act of actual thievery when he discovered that Arthur never watered the rose plant his father's company had deposited on his office window ledge as a way of " _Giving the place a living feel._ "  
He took that thing right home and took care of it.  
It now took up a third of the border edging of Percival's tiny garden, a huge and ever-expanding testament to the man's soft-heartedness. Percival had never been possessive before to Arthur's knowledge, although he was intensely shy and unerringly loyal, and when he fell he fell _hard_.  
Arthur looked for a way to make amends before Percival became genuinely pissed with him.

"He must be something special if he's got you on the defensive. Have you been together long? You've never mentioned him."

Percival gritted his teeth and looked pained.

"Firstly, he's just a mate. A damned good one, and i am telling you now that no means no, he doesn't need that trouble to deal with. I _mean_ it Arthur, _No_."

Arthur clamped his mouth shut like a chastised schoolboy.

"Secondly," Percival brightened into humour, "When would i have told you? You dodge everybody's calls for months and then drop back into town like nothing? What happened?"

Arthur sighed and rolled his eyes, but Perce could see the uncomfortable edge under his demure nonchalance.

"Got bored. Felt like some old scenery."

The bouncer didn't buy it for a second, but didn't push.

"Listen, i don't feel like dancing anymore so i'm gonna head. Can we do a coffee run tomorrow sometime? Catch up? See if the others are free, i've been a crap friend lately, and i want to remind you all i exist, you know?"

Percival narrowed his eyes, but Arthur simply smiled brightly, and he gave in.

"Sure, i'll get them to meet me at Delilah's, say at 12?"

Arthur grinned properly as he backed away, looking like he hadn't a care in the world.

"12 at Delilah's sounds great. I'll see you then."

Percival watched the blonde turn, wobble a little, and then saunter away, and felt his stomach churn. Oh, this was bad, he just knew it. Bad bad _bad_ , but he couldn't quite put his finger on why.


	4. Chapter 4

He came to the realisation that he was awake without opening his eyes, a way of waking up that was becoming the norm. Muted sunlight was shining in his room, gently seeping through his eyelids and trying in vain to light him up as it did the world.

Merlin continued to lie still, eyes closed as he focused on the sound of his breathing, a steady push and pull which was just as sedate, if less forceful, than the darkness of one of his clubs. As the air filled his lungs and his muscles guided the air back into the room, Merlin listened for other sounds, mind and soul awake though his body still slumbered, his calm atmosphere tampered with the cold knowledge that there was no singing today.

There was hardly ever any singing any more, his mum seemed to have given it up. Merlin knew it was to do with her loss of faith in the world, but he was never able to gather together the heart he needed to mention it to her. In the emptiness that surrounded his world with that loss of singing, screamed the silence of his condition. The air was heavy with the knowledge that nobody spoke, that at some point, Merlin would have to join them, the voices in the air who shrieked that he was dying, that his body was consuming itself.

And it was, wasn't it? His body, his very cells, were devouring him as calm as you like. And the silent voices crying out the news because no-one else would. Not that Merlin wanted them to. He didn't. He didn't want his Uncle Giaus giving him medically-sourced advice, he didn't want daily check ups with him, his live-in GP. He didn't want his mother crying, telling him over and over that he was going to die, that she shouldn't be outliving him. He _didn't._

But what he also couldn't face was the avoidance of the topic, not saying it didn't make it go away, the air screeched at him in every hesitation, it roared in each and every pause, the voices pregnant with the information that he was going to die.  
If he so much as sneezed he could see his mother tensing up, see in her face that she wanted to fuss, that she was afraid the sneeze signalled his imminent departure from their kitchen into that cold steel-and-disinfectant world of the hospital. And the worst was, in the days before she _would_ have fussed. She would have scolded him for being out all night, for not coming home with a jacket, for leaving his bedroom window open, for walking the long way home in the rain on purpose.

She would have sourced a handkerchief or tissue from somewhere, most likely one of her many pockets on one of her many cardigans, packet after packet of tissues lived in those knitted caves. But Merlin knew that now she was afraid to fuss, terrified that if she mentioned the words sick or ill that she would jinx him into an early grave, or send him from her in a cold withdrawal. Merlin couldn't thole it, he just couldn't cope with that dreadful, suffocating air, his brain burning with that screaming knowledge.

The hospital had assigned him someone. Someone to talk to, someone to listen to him try to give a voice to the way his body was waging a mutinous civil war, someone to try and make sense of the words that he gave to how he _felt about it_.

Merlin didn't want to _feel_ anything. He didn't want to _talk_ about it, to force that awfulness into the air when the air was already full of everything else that was awful.  
He didn't want to endure that nakedness, the _knowing_ that someone was hearing what was inside of him as he let it out in his words. He didn't want to have to give them words, these things inside of him, the heavy dreadfulness, the damp, foggy uncertainty and sudden, burning certainty that scorched and drowned his insides.  
He didn't want to bring on that unbearable suffocating feeling, the air turning to steam and his lungs howling for the soothing that he had when he disconnected in the darkness, with the vodka and the push-and-pull of the beat as it pulsed through him, a second heartbeat steadying him, his existence.

Merlin didn't want his thoughts, his feelings on the best of days. And he certainly didn't want to give them to anyone else. To do that was to give them what they wanted, life. To throw those things out, to let them loose into his world, would be to allow them substance so that they could grow even more and he refused them that.  
A quiet murmuring drifted secretively from the kitchen downstairs. He heard the muted brush of the frying pan against the stove, felt the quiet _whoomf_ of the gas hob as the flame-ring lit up blue. A soft crack.

Eggs. Mum was making eggs.

Merlin opened his eyes to let the light in and slowly sat up as a single tear pooled in the corner of his right eye and slipped down his cheek.


	5. Chapter 5

His fingers brushed the soft blue frame of the kitchen door, trailing over the familiar bumps and that knick that had always been there. His mother stood before the stove, spatula and frying pan in hand, murmuring to his uncle, who was slicing bread on the countertop beside her.  
The comfortable smell of frying eggs and freshly sliced bread filled his nose as Merlin closed his eyes and let it fill him up, his body warming to the blanketing embrace of security.  
He didn't quite disconnect the way he always yearned to, but his heart slowed, his nerves unknotted and his stomach woke with a hungry grumble, a rare as rare occurrence nowadays.

When he opened his eyes agin, his mother had turned from the stove to look at him, his Uncle pausing in slicing the home-baked loaf to smile at him too.

"Merlin! Good morning sleepy head!"

His mother's voice was shocked, pleased. She set down her spatula and wiped her hands clumsily on the dishcloth sticking out of her cardigan pocket as she marched briskly towards him and enveloped him in a bear hug that you'd never guess such a small woman were capable of.

Despite himself, despite everything, despite his escape last night being cut short, Merlin felt himself smile.

"Morning Mum."

She hugged him tightly, and then all at once stepped back, returned to flip her eggs over, her face clear and smiling. Merlin was pleased to see her like that.

"Morning, Uncle Giaus."

The old Doctor nodded sedately as he resumed his methodical slicing, each slice, though irregular due to a lop-sided rise in the loaf, was precisely the same thickness, and Merlin's good mood extended to a chuckle at the sight.

"Merlin my boy, it's hardly morning any more, your sleep cycle is atrocious. If you like, i can suggest several different-"

Merlin cut him off with a grin.

"Nah, i'm fine, honest. Late Night, Late Mornings." he stated, quoting what felt like an age old reply from an age old argument. Giaus raised his eyebrows in defeat but didn't comment, although Merlin was pleased to see the remains of a smile on his lips.

His mother set a plate down at his usual place, three fried eggs with the yolk still running, triangular slices of fried red pepper and two buttered slices of Uncle Giaus' bread.

"Sit." she commanded.

Merlin sat, acknowledging privately what a relief his actions must be to his mother, who had to fight him tooth and nail at every meal time (and all the day in-between) to eat something. His stomach grumbled again, kicking up a notch, and Merlin made a start on his breakfast, a meal as old to him as time itself, and as comforting as a favourite napping place or well-loved book.

He pretended not to notice his mother's smile wobbling as she watched him not-so-subtly, her eyes welling with unexpected tears. It made it easier if he pretended to be oblivious to the tense air in their home, though this morning was one of their best in a long long time.

Merlin cleared his plate as his Uncle was sitting down, and, feeling generous and loved, he twisted in his chair.

"Is there another egg going, Mum?"

She hid her surprise poorly, but her smile was wide and genuine as she hastily scraped another egg onto his plate from the pan as though afraid he'd change his mind.

"There. If you want, i could do some more peppers, i've a half left in the fridge-"

"That's okay, this is fine." and, to avoid disappointing her, for her smile was already fading, "I'll have the rest for lunch though, if that's alright?"

Her smile returned and she nodded, satisfied.

"Of course, Merlin dear. Whenever you feel like it."

Setting the pan down and flicking off the hob, Hunith brought her own plate over, kissing the top of Merlin's head as she sat down. Merlin smiled at her and finished his egg, his stomach now feeling over-full at such a large meal after so long. But his mother was cheerful, and Uncle Giaus wasn't so miserable, so he decided it was worth it.


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur drummed his fingertips on the cracked checkered vinyl coating of the table top. He was seated at one of the largest tables in the cosy cafe, an old, solid wood that was just on one side of round, heading towards oval.

Under the worn plasticky top coat was a dark wood, remnants of times before the cafe was re-done, reminders that it used to be an old, slightly Irish-feeling bar, with dark wood benches and black leather padding and old green wallpaper with gold edging. The air had always smelt of chips and ale, and the kitchen had served good, old-fashioned pub grub.

Arthur remembers that look, vaguely, - and the smell better - from his childhood. Leon's mother used to bring them on Thursdays after school, Leon's little brothers and sisters in tow. Arthur had ordered the same thing almost every time he had ever been there; thick, southern fried chicken strips and barbecue sauce, and gloriously thick cut chips.

At that stage in his life he had thought that was the height of success in life, good, _normal_ food, at stark contrast with what his father insisted the cook always serve. Arthur had relished those outings, a secret of sorts, a once weekly escape from salmon en croute and king prawn cocktail and fresh-water eel salad and stuffed guinea fowl and pheasant and sirloins with peppercorn watercress sauce…  
The list went on.

Cassandra had taken him into the fold of her family every Thursday, his Father had late meetings on Thursdays and Arthur was too young to stay home on his own. His mother had passed away shortly after giving birth to him, and although he wasn't even a day old when it happened he had carried an odd, misplaced and very secret guilt around with him what felt like his whole life. He had always been sure that his mother's death was the reason his Father was so bitter and humourless. He had been certain since an early age that his father both loathed and cherished him, in equal measure, for although he was the prodigal only son and heir to the business, he was also, he suspected, his mother's killer.

Arthur sighed, shook his head of that familiar old thought path. It didn't do him any good to dwell on the topic, it only ever served in making him anxious and sad, and a grumpy, lousy person to be around. And he didn't need that today. Today he needed to show his friends that he hadn't forgotten their existence in his home town, far from his bustling new life in the big city offices of his Father's dull but important corporation. He'd been a miserable friend the last year or so, missing birthdays and barbecues, forgetting a reunion weekend away, mixing up the dates for Leon's surgery when he'd promised to be there to ensure Morgana didn't claw the eyes out from any of the nurses.

Despite the mood he was in, Arthur smiled slightly at the thought of his half-sister. The nutter even frightened Gwaine when she tried, and he was a fearless daredevil with a couldn't-care-less, happy-go-lucky whichever-way-the-wind-blows attitude.

Leaning back in his chair, Arthur's fingers continued to drum. Impatience, that what it was, not nerves. Why on earth would it be nerves? He didn't _do_ nervous. He checked his watch.

_Where the bloody hell are they?_

It was 12:02. What on _earth_ were they playing at?


	7. Chapter 7

"Please put a jacket on dear," Merlin's mother's voice drifted down the stairs to him, "I know you hate them but it's pouring down, and-"

"Okay."

Hunith started in surprise, and then a relieved smile found its way onto her face, unsure at first and then pleased and bright.

"Oh." she said. "Good. Take care, and send Percy my love!"

"Will do! Bye Mum! Tell Uncle Gaius I'll get Bi-carb for him on my way back!"

With a familiar and creaky _thunk_ , their front door closed behind him.

"I will," spoke Hunith to herself, standing on the landing and watching her son's lanky frame, swaddled in his red-and-navy waterproof, hunched in that head-down-hands-in-pockets way that people do against the rain. Hunith smiled sadly as she watched him stride away, unsurprised at the sudden tears choking her airways. She was often caught by unexpected waves of sadness these days, though she could usually wrestle them back down before they fell.

She sighed, turning her attention back to the bedsheets in her hands, with the forlorn thought that came upon her every now and then. Her familial world may have been torn by the loss of Merlin's father, the pain numbed a little by the years, and their lives may be permanently devastated by the knowledge of Merlin's condition, but beds still needed changing, clothing was still worn and in need of washing. Her heart was bullied, broken, her spirit tested and her loved ones suffering, but the world kept on turning just the same.

She sniffled, got herself back under control, and got on with draping the damp bed sheet over the clothes horse in the alcove. A set of "winter-dykes", Gaius called them. Hunith smiled a little at the thought. Merlin was so much like him, especially the way her brother had been when he was younger. She worried about them both so. But really, there wasn't much new there, was there?  
She had always worried about her son.

Merlin was withdrawn and quiet, had been his whole life, awkward and just that little step out of sync with the rest of the world. Hunith had encouraged and supported him every day, from that tiny fragile bundle they handed to her when she was rushed into hospital too many weeks early for it to be good news.  
But it had been, by God, and his whole life Hunith had been thankful that she hadn't allowed her mother to pressure her into termination in her early stages, fuelled by an intense dislike for the odd, good-for-nothing man who had swept her daughter away from her.

Balinor had been Hunith's whole world from the moment they met, when she was just sixteen and he was an older man, nearly twenty, dark and mischievous and mysterious, with a sense of humour that was deep and thoughtful, and a vast knowledge of subjects Hunith had never considered interesting until he spoke of them. The man was passion and heart in human form, and losing him had put her so dangerously close to the edge that she had called upon Gaius to take Merlin away for fear of what she might do.  
Devastation was not the word. Losing Balinor had ripped her world apart, sucked all the light from her and opened a cavernous vacuum so wide she couldn't see the other side. For almost a year Hunith had spent agonising nights toeing the drop, feeling the weightlessness awaiting her, that freedom of falling, the dark and delicious temptation to just _let go_. In a moment of madness, at her wit's end, she had explained the experience to Gaius, in her untidy living room, in clothes she hadn't removed in a fortnight, bedraggled and filthy, half-starved and almost mad.

And Gaius, God praise him, had sat with her, Merlin in hand, the child intuitively quiet, and listened to her ravings with a quiet understanding, and then, as he was leaving again, he had looked her in the eye and given her the words that had set her free from the torment and allowed her purchase on the other side.

"Hunith, my dear, it's not falling that you need worry about. It won't be the fall that kills you. It'll be landing at the bottom that'll really do it."

Hunith had sat on the welcome mat long after he and Merlin had gone, and she had sat there well into the night, everything going round and round in her head.  
And when the sun was coming up she got up, walked into the kitchen and filled the kettle. She had watched the water bubble and listened to the muted roar as she dropped a tea bag in what had been Balinor's favourite mug. She sat at the kitchen table and drank her tea and watched the sun breach the horizon, sending golden light cascading into her garden, and for the first time since before her husband's death she had breathed easy. That morning she washed, and did her laundry, brushed her hair and aired the house out. When she was finished she put on her trainers and went outside.

The air was too bright and her lungs too full but she had persisted, and she ran for two hours straight, blind to the world but for the push and pull of air into her lungs and the beat of her trainers hitting the pavement. The rhythm filled her up until she was no longer aware of her surroundings but simply existed for each stride, each thud and each breath, and when she reached her front gate she had stopped, lungs strained and breathing hard and every nerve alight, and she had smiled.

Merlin had only been little, barely two when Balinor had died, and Hunith herself only twenty four. She had pieced herself back together for his sake, and when Gaius brought him back after her sending him away so many months previously, she had hugged him tightly and cried until she couldn't breathe. And that night when Gaius was gone and she was in bed, Merlin curled like a napping kitten against her side, she had cried herself to sleep, the pain of her love's loss fresh and jagged now that she had joined the world again.

But when the sun woke her up the next morning Hunith had gotten out of bed, made Merlin breakfast, forced down some toast and some more tea in Balinor's mug and she had gotten through it. She had pushed the pieces of herself back into place by sheer will, but she had done it. And when Merlin had looked over at her, across the table from his perch in his highchair, and smiled, she had smiled back, and he had gone back to mashing his banana in his cereal, content that everything was okay again.

Since then, Hunith had been behind him every step, every twist and turn and curve that was thrown his way, she had been in the wings waiting to aid, to fight his corner if he had needed it. She had never re-married, had never fallen in love again or even been interested in anyone else. She had left her old job and her friends and trained as a nurse, putting herself forward for any training opportunities that came her way, specialising in special needs, psychiatric and then taking classes on bereavement counselling. Her out-of-work world had narrowed to include only Merlin and then Gaius, who had helped her so much in the earliest stages with Merlin and his _specialness_.

When a link-transfer opportunity had opened up three years ago in a small hospital in an out-of-the-way area, Hunith had jumped at the chance to take her training there, where they didn't have anyone with quite as much experience or expertise as she had. She moved herself and Merlin out of the house she had called home since she was eighteen and newly married, had packed up everything thoroughly and carefully, emotionally parting with many of Balinor's things - much of which went to sheltered housing projects and whatnot with links to her old hospital - and they settled down in a cosy three bed cottage in a quiet street in a dozy village surrounded by quaint hills.

By that point Merlin was fourteen and old enough to keep his talents under wraps. At the age of four Merlin had named the special power that nestled within him, had off-handedly referred to it as _Magika_.  
Hunith had at the time thought he meant _Magic_ , but he had insisted vehemently that the "a" was supposed to be there.

Hunith had watched Merlin grow, from a tiny infant into a scrawny child into the lanky teenager he was now, and he had always been an outsider, different from the other children in his toddler groups, and after school clubs, brighter than the other kids in his class and punished for it by children too young to understand why they hated him so.  
Now, he was finishing at the local secondary school and he had a few friends who didn't seem to mind that he was unusual, and in fact Hunith often wondered if his oddness was what they liked about him. Her son was bright, funny, caring and soft-hearted, and a wonder with a paint brush, and with words.

And he had Percy. Hunith liked Percy. He was a good intellectual match for her son, he was polite and helpful, and he was, despite appearances, a very sensitive young man with a lot to offer.  
_And_ he was very protective of Merlin, for which Hunith was grateful. Merlin was adept at many things, one of which was causing trouble for himself by way of being unable to hold his tongue, and Hunith rested easier knowing he had good friends like Percy looking out for him.


	8. Chapter 8

Arthur stepped out of the cafe bathroom with a good mind to phone Percival and harass him for being late to his own pre-arranged time, when he took in the group who had commandeered his table. The initial flare of irritation died when he recognised Leon's wild brown-and-blonde curls, which were held back from his eyes with a thin hairband in a look that Morgana thought was hip and cool and Arthur thought was stupid.

Leon didn't much care, he was just grateful it was out of his eyes and stopped Morgana fussing.

Leon had been Arthur's best mate since they were in nappies, their mother's had been friends since _they_ were in nappies, and Cassandra had stepped in to provide whatever support she could when Arthur was born and his mother gone. Leon and he had gone to school together, played on the football team together, tried rugby together, dumped rugby together for swimming and more football practice.

Leon had been there for Arthur's first Birthday Party, where reportedly Arthur squalled and squeaked at other children touching his things. He had pushed Arthur towards his first girlfriend, helped him cram for maths exams, he had covered Arthur's coaching at the pitch while he finished his Advanced Higher Art Folio, behind his father's back.

He had stood by Arthur while he had defiantly told his father he had realised he was bisexual. He had understood Arthur's new schedule with the company when Arthur himself had been swamped by it, and he had been there for every leap forward and every stumble and every set back in between.

 _And,_ of course, he had taken Morgana off his hands four years ago and, more recently, out of his house.

The man was a saint.

On either side of Leon sat tall, dark-haired men of the type you wouldn't be surprised to see in magazines. On the left, Lancelot; a bookish man with a soft-hearted disposition to rival Percival's. He was poetic and quiet, a chocolate-curled, brown-eyed romantic type, with a humble streak a mile wide and the calm level-headedness to match.

On the right, however, sat Gwaine. His hair, dark and curly like Lance's, managed to be somehow more unruly, glinting coppery in random light, dipping down and catching on eyelashes that the man didn't deserve, and framing a pair of meadow-green eyes which _always_ sparkled with mischief of one sort or another. A grin to match, he lounged in his seat in a typical fashion, a happy-go-lucky free-as-a-bird type who cared little for rules and less for the dreariness of a normal life. Gwaine was a thrill-seeker, an adventurer. That was the best word for him.

Beside Lancelot, Percival's bulky frame, with his dark blonde crew-cut and blue eyes, looking really rather tired and nursing what smelt like a black coffee, then an empty chair, awaiting Arthur. On the other side, between the vacant chair and Gwaine, sat a bloke Arthur had met only a few times, at football matches and the rare occasions he had made it home for.

In fact, he remembered now, they'd shared a Pizza at the last night at Percival's that Arthur had attended, he remembered they'd split a Hawaiian that Arthur had insisted be ordered, because the guy had been the only other one who didn't harbour a ludicrous - in Arthur's opinion - hatred of fruit on their take-away.

Elyan, that was his name. He was smaller than the others, but broad enough to hold his own on the pitch, with flawless dark skin, thoughtful brown eyes and short - cropped black hair. He had a thing about being clean-shaven, Arthur remembered oddly, a point which he remembered the others loved to tease him about. He was quiet and clever, a Mathematical genius who was finishing off his teacher's degree at the closest University.

Arthur flicked Leon's pushed-back curls as he passed the table, grinning a hello as he took the empty chair.

"Hello lads."

A round of noise went up, those closest leaning over thump him on the back, everybody talking at once to greet him. Arthur felt the stress he was under lift a little. He was business man, of course. He was used to working all hours, handling big and important projects, and it was the career path he'd chosen, and he enjoyed it, he did, the organising and the structure gave him a deep satisfaction when a job was done right.

But this, slipping back into the fold of these, really his only friends, was something too. Like coming home, and, he thought a little arrogantly, like being welcomed back like a lost leader.


	9. Chapter 9

Merlin knocked again, tucking his face further down into that neck-lip of his jacket, away from the rain. After checking left and right, - the last thing he needed was to get lifted by the police on a day when his mum was smiling - the lanky youth slipped around the side of the house to the garden, running his fingers along the hip height, council-chosen plastic-capped wire fencing that caged Percival's well-maintained little rectangle of botanical bliss. Merlin smiled, the garden was as beautiful as always, despite the onslaught of the heavy rain.

Percival's garden had been one of Merlin's favourite places since he'd first laid eyes on it. It had been an incredibly rare, bright summer day, and everything in the garden had been in bloom, colour bursting from every corner and crevice, pastel sweet pea stretching across the far fence, vivid green ivy with white blossoms snaking up the side of the house where the drain-pipe was. Hyacinths in every shade of lavender and pink, fuchsias swaying in a barely-there breeze, a colour-wheel of pansies populating every free inch of border soil. There were carnations in orange roaming between seductive purple Irises, and twisty anemones protected by rings of muted cornflowers and bright yellow daffodils.

Even the grass in the middle was bursting with daisies, patches of lemon-coloured pee-the-beds and puffy white fairy-wishes dotted in scattered splashes. And in the middle of the edging Percival's ever-growing rose plant, buds of every shade exploding loudly in the sunshine.

Merlin had watched Percival work on the rose plant, his pride of place surrounded by all other breeds, and Percival had talked expressively of cuttings and secondary plantings and how he had envisioned producing all the other colours when he had first planted a solitary little yellow plant. He had told Merlin of a self-important childhood friend who had neglected the small seedling, and how it had been wasted in a boring, dreary office anyway, starved of the space and care to grow.

Merlin had grinned through the whole story, hearing Percival's disbelief and picturing some poor bloke, who just didn't care about flowers, being subject to Percival's disapproval. It had been a comfortably warm, summery afternoon not long after his diagnosis, and Merlin had lapped up the time away from the suffocating air of his home, confiding in Percival and laughing at his stories. It had been a day closer to perfect than any Merlin could remember, and he recalled the way in which the glorious sunshine and being surrounded by thriving plants had made his _Magika_ sing in exultation, a day in which he could close his eyes and lay back on the grass, grinning face upturned to the sky, a warm happiness flooding him just as the sunlight streamed into Percival's little haven.

To see it now, in typical Autumn weather, the garden was still beautiful, in a forlorn sort of way. The grass was muddy and dark, patchy after months of damp weather and little to no sunlight. The borders were swampy, barren. The ivy had lost its blossoms and the leaves their lustre, each reaching half-heartedly outwards to catch the rain drumming on their surface.

The daffodils were long gone, the anemones cowering underground until the springtime. No more daisies scattered across the garden, and no more proud hyacinths or swaying, pregnant fuchsias. Even the deep purple of the irises had run off till summer sunshine appeared again. Stark carnation debris huddled under what little protection was afforded by the body of the rose plant.

And the rose plant itself? Even it looked worse for wear, no longer a vivid green wall of leaves and sharp thorns, but patchy, muted shrubbery and mostly-empty stalk heads. But seen through Merlin's eyes that day the garden gleamed, the only colour left the green of leaves, but he saw a dulled emerald underwater, knew the colours would return, and that alone was enough to keep the small smile on his face as he left, knowing that if Percival wasn't home he'd be in one of two places, the first far more likely than the latter. Adjusting his hood and securing the loosening velcro, he burrowed further into his jacket and turned away.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Quick Author's Note): While i fully acknowledge that Dollar Academy is a genuine Boarding School located in Scotland, that is all i have borrowed. I do not claim to represent the school, it's staff, pupils, or any of it's affiliates in any way shape or form, nor am i presenting what i believe to be a true representation of the school. I have no knowledge of the inner workings or layout of the school, nor of the rules and regulations or policies in place within.  
> Every incident, pupil, member of staff or feature in my writing, the name and location notwithstanding, is purely fictional with only the aim to entertain. I have chosen to borrow the name and location to create a tangible link to reality, that is all. I make no money from this, nor do i intend any offence.  
> Thank You.

"Are we not good enough for you then, here in boring old Ealdor?" queried Gwaine in his personal brand of mock-insulted mock-seriousness.

Much of Gwaine, namely his manner, was prefixed by "mock" really. Arthur always thought the bloke _lived_ for scandal, and certainly for melodrama. Which was fine by Gwaine, because he was often prone to believe that Arthur lived for any opportunity to sneer, however playfully, at other people's faults. He took a certain pleasure in winding Arthur up, and could never understand why the others joined him so rarely.

Arthur groaned, swallowing half his coffee with a half-hearted scowl.

"You _know_ that's not how it is" he replied, a tad petulantly, "it's just that the business is at-"

"At a _critical stage_ , and your dad's got his knickers in a twist about it, we get it. Are you _in-village_ for a bit or what?"Gwaine often used what Arthur referred to as made up terms. He refused to say "in town" when talking about their rural home, stating that they couldn't be in town if there wasn't a town.

Arthur looked pained.

"Well, i-"

"So that's a _no,_ " cut in Gwaine again, completely ignoring that familiar subtle, tight-lipped, wide-eyed expression worn by everyone else at the table as they tried to catch his eye and keep him in check, "Out tonight then?"

Arthur just closed his mouth and glanced at Percival. The bouncer simply shrugged.

"Well -"

"Okay, agreed!" Gwaine exclaimed boisterously, "It's a date. We'll get you out tonight and then once you've been re-introduced to fun we'll see where we stand tomorrow about your inevitable return to the clutches of your Camelot."

As Percival choked a laugh back down with a mouthful of coffee, and Leon and Lance tried not to smirk, Arthur narrowed his eyes into his "shut-up-before-i-kill-you" expression - or as Gwaine referred to it, his "off-with-his-head" glare - and snorted.

"You _know_ i hate that."

Gwaine's fly-away references to the fabled Arthurian era annoyed Arthur to no end. The brunette thought them hilarious and never-ageing, a view Arthur did not share. It had been bad enough that his parents had weird old names - apparently one of the reasons they started out together, much to Arthur's dismay - but they'd given him a name he loathed.

Okay, so he secretly loved it, sometimes. (But _only_ _sometimes_ , and certainly only when Gwaine wasn't around.)

Arthur, he felt, was such an "old man" name. When he was little he'd envied the other children in his class who had nice, _normal_ , and sometimes even cool names, like George, Mark, Evan, Nathan and Michael. He'd even been secretly jealous of the little boy called Anthony, which was a right mouthful but could be wonderfully shortened to Tony. Arthur had for years wished and pleaded to be called Tony.

Sadly, no-one but Leon had answered his plea, and even then he only did so after a daily argument that Arthur should learn to love his own name because it was the only one that was truly his.

It got slightly better at Secondary, when his father sent him off to the posh Boarding school up North. Dollar Academy, despite having what his father called a very "Americanised" name, boasted a very traditional, British education befitting that of a youngling of someone of his father's status, and was situated in the gorgeous Scottish countryside.

During his years there Arthur had been enrolled with a lot of very Middle class children, and a few _very_ Upper class ones, whom Arthur was both resentful and envious of. Morgana, of course, fitted straight in seamlessly, a social spot exactly for her simply appearing, as though she had forever existed there, amongst the school's elite crowd.

Arthur had adjusted very quickly too, having already spent the vast majority of his childhood crafting a very good mimicry of his Father's public persona.

Regardless of the fact that he was made feel very small and insignificant beside them in the corridors, Arthur presented to his classmates at all times an air of expectation and entitlement which served him well in the unspoken and cut-throat business of social hierarchy.

Having Leon beside him the whole way had of course helped an incomprehensible amount, not that Arthur was ever prone to saying so.

It had gotten much more complicated when Arthur was in third year. Until that point, Arthur, even with Leon, got by pretty much without being accosted about his name. Outwith any reference to Camelot and the like, his name was nice and normal, if old-fashioned.

But then Arthur walked into the breakfast hall one morning to find the place subtly buzzing with that muted interest that indicated something was happening. Considering the prestige of the school and the expectations of its pupils, it was highly unlikely anyone was being excluded or had gotten into a fight that warranted so much hubbub.

Which meant that someone was probably joining the school. As Arthur sat down to butter a croissant, Leon sipping coffee and working on maths homework by his side, their Dean entered the room with a scrawny, dark-haired boy of about Arthur's own age, who looked nervous and completely out of his depth. Smirks went up all round as people began taking silent stock of his shoes; (unpolished) his shirt; (too big) and his blazer; (generic, non-school grade).

All eyes were glued to the Dean even as the man raised his hand to his mouth to cough. Silence fell as the room eagerly awaited news of this new development.

"Gentlemen, your attention please."

You could have heard a butterfly take flight within the room.

"We here at Dollar Academy have the pleasure of adding another young man to our ranks today. He will joining the third year boys of Class 2 for his General Classes, and he'll be situated in Dorm Room F. You will be expected to give him a fully warm welcome and ensure he finds his place amongst you all."

He turned to the boy, who looked small beside his towering six and a half feet, and smiled.

"Lancelot, welcome to Dollar Academy."

As the Dean turned to make his way out, Arthur saw the connection a second before eyes started turning his way, cogs turning in the heads behind them. Not everybody, of course, many had gone straight back to breakfast, to their conversations. But eyes were on him.

Arthur looked to Leon, who stared at him with thoughtful, surprised eyes. For a second he said nothing, but then he seemed to come to a decision, and nodded. Arthur had no time to question him, and could only watch in faint dismay as his friend raised his hand in a wave towards the boy still standing in the spot he'd been led to.

"Lancelot! Over here."

Arthur simply stared as the tiny boy made his way timidly over to the empty seats across from Leon and himself. The boy had soft brown eyes and short, brown curls, and he looked totally helpless, like a fish floundering on dry land. He smiled at Leon, and then looked shyly to Arthur as though for permission to sit. Arthur nodded dumbly, feeling the heat of eyes on him and wishing his mother had just called him bloody Tony.


	11. Chapter 11

With his collar tugged up as high as it would go, and his hood hooked down as low over his eyes as possible, and the rain pasting his waterproof to his skin in that chilled, slimy way, Merlin felt very much like a cling-filmed penguin, waddling down the road.

He was perfecting the art of taking as long a stride as possible while not exposing the fabric of his inside legs to the siege the rain was staging, when he gave up on his perpetual self-imposed ruling just a tad, and allowed a little flash of warmth to tingle down his spine and trickle through his limbs. The shiver of pleasure was only partly from the warmth he was creating, but also from a bliss he couldn't describe.

He had to be careful, though.

Normally, Merlin kept himself in check, his _Magika_ sort of like an extra urge he had to curb. Where most people his age were battling back rampant sexual urges, and some - mostly girls, really - were waging a willpower war on that urge to eat junk food or snack, Merlin had his own secret willpower fight.

 _Magika_ was like a drug, and the battle was two-fold. Firstly, the triumphant feeling that most people would understand, the success of achieving something, getting something done. He could give himself that, at any time, day or night. He could lower his guard _just so_ and he wouldn't even get damp from the rain, not even if he walked all the way through the town stark naked in a rainstorm. And as if that want wasn't enough, he had the ability to quench that longing people feel when they're drenched, and sticking to their coat, and it's miserable and cold and their hair is wet from rain and sweat sneaking down their neck. That want to be dried by the billow of hairdryers and swathed in clothes and blankets straight from the dryer, to be able to give himself that feeling, right now, in this wet misery, was such a temptation.

Addiction, for Merlin, wasn't drugs, or sex or chocolate - although he _did_ have a great love for chocolate - and it wasn't snacking on crisps or achieving sporty success. (God knows it wasn't a need for exercise, blah.) Merlin had his own fair share like anyone, true, he had little to no willpower when it came to coffee, new books, cheesy rom-coms, the next episode of his favourite shows, a new series of Firefly (He could dream, couldn't he?) and the smell of new watercolours.

He found it just as difficult as anybody to be half way through a maths lesson and suddenly be struck with a new, out-of-the-blue idea for a story and have to sit through the remainder of algebra while watching the clock tick down and agonising over the hours between him and his laptop.

But Merlin, as his mother was always saying to him, was extra special. He had another temptation, another, _truer_ addiction that other people would just never understand.

And it was complicated, because it wasn't just Magic. It was the same principle, he could make things happen that defied the current accepted understanding of the world. He could move things, vanish things to elsewhere, change the nature or appearance of things, and he could change things about himself or others, like temperature, or even emotions if he tried hard enough. And it wasn't just the want and triumph of levitating his book from across the room after he'd burrowed himself down in his duvet. Merlin often thought that he could be forgiven for his lack of stony willpower when faced with puppies or a new Hugh Dancy Tv series, that it was justifiable, because all of his reserves of willpower were, well, _reserved,_ for dealing with his _Magika_. And when he reasoned like that, he felt much better.

It was the _physical rush_ of allowing his _Magika_ a release, allowing it to dance along his very cells and sing through his veins as he commanded it that made his indulgence so dangerous. His secret skill felt pleasure in every freedom he allowed, and that feeling was intoxicating to Merlin, far above and beyond any feeling allowed to him by his sanctuaries crafted from vodka and darkness and music. When Merlin's will was particularly low, or he was down with flu or frustrated, the effort required to hold that need in check was desperately vast. Merlin could easily imagine being driven mad, literally, by the feeling, that he could genuinely achieve being _drunk with power_. It was this awareness that took over where his mother's warnings left off, as he aged, that steeled Merlin and gave him the strength to refuse his urge.

Sighing into what little heat he had allowed himself, Merlin tugged open the old and very heavy door for the quaint cafe he openly adored, knowing Percival would, like clockwork, stop here for his usual double-shot coffee before he made his way on to do his Saturday shop at the market and then the deli.

Tumbling through the doorway on a particularly strong gust of wind, Merlin embraced the warm and welcoming atmosphere the place always embodied, sodden high tops skidding on the floor and he tugged down his hood and grinned upon seeing his quarry seated at the table he always sat at, his jacket zip halfway down and Percival's name leaving his tongue as he realised his friend had company.


	12. Chapter 12

Arthur absently registered Percival tensing in the same instant he watched the tall, dripping figure bowl into the cafe on some ridiculously badly-timed current of air. The figure threw back his navy hood and Arthur's world paused on a heartbeat.

As the hood fell back and the face turned towards their table, Arthur was mesmerised by the entrant. He looked a loose-limbed, clumsy sort, and was blessed with darker-than-ebony curls which drizzled rainwater in rivulets down towards heartbreaking cheekbones, and framed the most devastatingly blue eyes Arthur had ever seen. It was as though whole constellations resided there, creating a depth Arthur had never seen the likes of before.

The bloke blinked, gorgeously black eyelashes flashing down and back up, as the figure called Percival's name.

And then the heartbeat was over and Arthur's world beat in rhythm again, every colour vivid, as though the room had taken a gasping breath after a forever of being muted and dull. Arthur couldn't remember the world ever being this bright, this beautiful, every breath as though he was absorbing the colour, he could feel it feeding into his veins.

The sensation was intoxicating, and for a single, endless second, Arthur felt that anything was possible, that everything could be achieved. He felt ridiculous for his celestial thoughts as soon as his brain adjusted into gear again, and he cringed internally. It was just a _bloke_ , for Christ's sake.

It was pure coincidence that he looked the utter embodiment of Arthur's type but still, just a bloke; no more no less.

He could only stare as the lad paused, only just realising the existence of the table's other occupants, before his elfish face was split again by a grin so wide and warm that Arthur struggled to breathe.

He didn't notice the way that Lancelot, usually calm and unruffled, looked to Percival with panicked eyes.

He also didn't notice the way that Percival seemed to darken and sadden, as though something awful was unfolding before him and he were powerless to stop it.

" _Hullo_ , you lot! It's great to see you!"

He _did_ notice the way Gwaine brightened, a grin blooming on his face as he bounded from his chair to embrace the incomer in a bear hug of epic proportions. Arthur was caught unawares at the sound of his friend's voice, though he was unsure why it was such a surprise.

" _You_!" crowed the rogue, "When the buggery was the last time I set eyes on those cheekbones, hm? You've been avoiding me."

With that Gwaine pushed out his bottom lip in a perfect, and obviously practiced pout. The dark-haired lad just laughed.

"Oh, don't be such a Drama Queen, you know that's not true. I've been… _busy_ , that's all."

The bloke had a beautiful lilting voice, decorated with a scattering of soft personal inflections. There was a trace of something else in there that Arthur couldn't pin-point.  
He looked a little uncomfortable, the way that people look a little uncomfortable when they're really good at hiding that they're actually very much uncomfortable. Arthur thought he caught a knowing look that moved between them, a shared knowledge darkening the air for mere seconds before it passed and Gwaine was grinning like his usual loony self.  
The newcomer smiled again, and Arthur was unsure whether he had actually seen anything at all.

He promptly forgot when the dark blue eyes turned on the group, the stranger's smile turning into a fully fledged grin as he strode to the table, reaching Percival just as the larger man stood, throwing himself into a hug that spoke of a tight friendship, and Arthur couldn't help but notice that Percival's dark disposition seemed to have been shoo'ed off by the brightness that was the newcomer's smile. Percival drew back and chuckled, ruffling the dark curls with one massive hand, laughing more when he was batted at in weak protest.

"Every time! How old do you think I am?" he squawked, pushing against Percival's hand with a brilliant, bright laugh that made Arthur's heart thud hard in surprise. The coal eyelashes lifted to reveal the blue orbs, their depths sparkling with his easy humour, and Arthur at that moment was faced with the sudden, irrefutable knowledge that he had to meet the person behind those sky eyes and ebony curls.

The combined picture of the lad's appearance paired with the shine of laughter in his eyes and the sound of his voice was enchanting, and had Arthur wondering how he had never come across him, and he felt irrationally bereft that this stranger had not made his way into Arthur's life before now.

He was aware the others were talking, their voices welcoming as they greeted the new guy, but Arthur's thoughts were elsewhere, caressing the crest of those startling cheekbones, twisting in the dark curls and getting lost in the constellations in his eyes.

Arthur was jarred into the horrifying realisation that he had tuned out, and rather obviously, when the tap on his shoulder brought him back into his seat in Delilah's Cafe, his friends all looking at him with bemused and curious expressions. Percival frowned at him, as though he had been in Arthur's head and heard everything. The blonde flushed, meeting the curious eye of the stranger who was also looking at him as though he were a bizarre creature in a specimen jar.

He slid on his most winning smile, unsettled when Percival's frown darkened and he crossed his arms. Arthur wondered why no-one else seemed to notice that their friend was in bouncer mode in the middle of their coffee-meet. Opening his mouth to query the gentle giant's expression, he was interrupted by the newest member, now seated at the table in a mis-matching stool from the nook in the corner. How long had he been daydreaming? Bloody hell, talk about unacceptable decorum. He swallowed as he listened to the stranger speak.

"I don't believe I know you." came the lilting voice, light and humoured as he smiled softly in Arthur's direction.

The blonde knew he was being ridiculous and fanciful, but when those dark blue eyes met his he could swear that he somehow knew the bloke thought he was the only person in the world worth his time. He absently noticed Percival leaving the table, but found himself grinning as the stranger's smile warmed, the figure leaning across the table to offer a hand.

Arthur spoke as he reached to shake it.

"I'm Arthur."

The smile faded from his lips and his eyes seemed to darken, just a little. The young bloke withdrew his hand, ducking his head and avoiding Arthur's gaze. Arthur frowned.

"Something wrong?"

Arthur glanced to Leon for an explanation, and was surprised when his friend avoided his eye. He looked to Lancelot, to Gwaine, and was surprised yet again, as well as feeling the beginning creep of worry, when even the latter seemed uncomfortable. _Nothing_ made Gwaine uncomfortable. Except perhaps Morgana, in one of her finest deadly moods. And Arthur's half-sister was certainly nowhere to be seen.

The dark head bobbed in a nod as the eyes glanced his way again before rounding on Gwaine.

"Very funny." the newcomer said with a wry smile.

He looked to Arthur again, with a small, confidential smile and held out his hand again. Arthur was caught by the soft shyness in his eyes, and almost missed the hand offered to him.

"They're always messing with me. I try to take it as a sign of affection."

His smile widened as he glanced at a mock-insulted Gwaine, ignoring the man's spluttering.

"Otherwise, they really do hate me, and i've been blind all these years. What's your name, really?"

His big blue eyes were back on him, grin back in place, and Arthur found it hard to breathe again.

"Uhm, I don't understand. What's wrong? I'm Arthur." he babbled, shaking the hand, only the last two words sounding sure of themselves.

The pretty night sky eyes narrowed a little, but the stranger seemed determined to play nice. Arthur found that refreshing after the cut-throatedness of the people in his office in the city.

"Okay, you're sticking to it, that's cool too. But say hypothetically you had a name that was perhaps _more_ like your real name than Arthur is. What would it be?"

He tipped his head a little to the side, and Arthur instantly got the impression that his next words were loaded with value and interest to the dark-eyed stranger. Which in turn meant his mouth went bone-dry. He swallowed.

"Uhm, I don't think i follow. Do I pick a new name, or...?"

He trailed off and glanced again at Gwaine, who was definitely hiding a snigger behind an incredibly well-practiced straight face.

"He's good."

The newcomer tossed his words Gwain's way, but his eyes never left Arthur's face, the look in them calculating and intense. Arthur was on the edge of uncomfortable, teetering but only just held back by the interest flickering in his chest.

He realised he hadn't let go of the other blokes hand. For a heartbeat he considered not doing so. But then his common sense kicked in and he released the lad's hand, glancing over at Percival by the cash register and the his eyes flicked back to their previous perch, as though drawn there.

"Okay, look, I'm well confused, what's happening here?"


	13. Chapter 13

Merlin eyed the new blonde curiously.  
He supposed really it was kind of funny, the play on his name, but it wasn't anything new, and even in the few years since he'd moved it had been taken advantage of at every opportunity, particularly by Gwaine.

When he'd first bumped into Percival, the bloke had introduced himself as Percy, so Merlin hadn't made the connection under after he'd introduced himself, when his friend had thought _he_ was taking the piss. A common occurrence, but they'd built a firm friendship on the disbelief and humour the meeting had created.  
Meeting Perce's other friends had been funny too, and they'd complained vigorously that people would think they were some sort of weird club who had re-named themselves in some obnoxious fit of teenage rebellion, or to become a bloody boy band or something.

There had been one or two occasions on big nights out, in the town, when people had laughed and queried where "their King Arthur" was, or made some quip or other about the shape of their table. He'd been asked for a Magic trick once or twice, which despite being day-to-day humour, made Merlin highly uncomfortable and a little paranoid. All very amusing to them when they'd first met, and by that time boring, nowadays it was sometimes more than a little irritating.

For his part, Merlin internally reasoned that his mother had been in a state when she was expecting him, hormones and his _Magika_ running rampant and making for an intoxicating cocktail that had perhaps swayed her away from the safety of the path of logic and reason.

Coupled with the fact that his parents both had odd names, this was why Merlin couldn't find the energy to truly resent her for his bizarre handle.

So he had come to accept the tiny, minute, slim and unbelievable odds that had been thrown his way when he had become part of the crowd.

With Percival, and Gwaine, Lance and Leon, and not forgetting his Gwen(Short, of course, for Guinevere); an awkward drunken meeting that had blossomed an ever-growing and unshakeable friendship, Merlin had come to accept the almost fairytale aspect of his life. He had often privately laughed over his secret, knowing that the lads would have a field day of epic proportions if they knew he had his _Magika_ as well as his name.

He tried not to think too long or hard on the legend, because he desperately wanted to be sure he was sane, but a very secret part of him had at times wandered towards the idea, an unregulated little part of his brain which opened the lock-box of unspoken what-ifs and rooted around inside, dragging one or two out into the light and shaking them off. It was incredibly silly and wild thinking, but when the smallest of odds occur in our lives, it's hard not to ponder on implications, however inconceivable or ridiculously bizarre they might be.

Merlin had never _seriously_ approached the idea that the legends were true and he was _T_ _hee_ Merlin back on earth awaiting a King to serve, but sometimes on dark nights when he was particularly adrift in the sea of his thoughts he had touched on the coincidence.

Secretly, that little part of Merlin had pondered on the thought of an Arthur. If they had everyone else collected together, surely it wasn't _too_ unthinkable to wonder if they'd find an Arthur? Or were the odds far too minuscule?

Still, before Merlin stood a brilliantly blonde and blue-eyed figure whom Merlin could easily (far too easily) imagine crowned and decked out in medieval battle armour. Red, he decided, definitely red. It'd be brave and bloody and regal, and bring out the blue in those eyes, contrast with the golden glinting of his hair…

The artist in him recognised a worthy sketch subject, and the little part pondered whether there were any conceivable way to ask a bloke you had just met to pose for you without it sounding A)well creepy, B)like you had no grasp of social boundaries and C)like you were soft on him.

The blonde insisted his name was Arthur, and as Merlin studied him he realised he believed him. It was surely far too impossible to be true, but yet the bloke seemed genuine, or he was a bloody good liar.

Merlin looked to Lancelot, Leon had apparently disappeared into the bathroom, presumably to hide. His dark-curled friend met his gaze with honest dark eyes and shrugged.

"His name is really Arthur, we've been friends for years."

Merlin frowned, wondering how they had never mentioned they had a friend called _Arthur_. _Arthur_ , for pete's sake! How do you forget you have a friend called Arthur when you're with a friend called _Merlin_? He looked back at the blonde, who was beginning to look entirely uncomfortable, and as though he had landed on a foreign planet.

"You never mentioned him." Merlin murmured, trying not to sound as betrayed as he felt.

An Arthur was a big deal, a bigger deal than a Percival, or even a Lancelot. A combination of all of them was huge, major news, and had Merlin's brain whirring as his imagination and historical mind colluded on the subject of Arthurian Legend. He would be lying if he told anybody (which he frequently did) that he hadn't paid much attention to the tales. When you have a name like Merlin, it's really inevitable that you grow curious.

"You didn't really need to know."

Appearing in the seat at his side was his ever-loyal bodyguard, in his bouncer pose with crossed arms. The smell of coffee roused Merlin, and he found a coffee sitting in front of him, leaning over to peck Percival on the cheek with a roguish grin to rival Gwaine's.

" _Coffee_!"

Forgetting about the newcomer, he took a long draw from the worn mug, burning his tongue but hardly caring as the warmth and sharp sweetness filtered through his abdomen. He didn't realise he had allowed his eyes to close until the voice of the newcomer, well, he corrected himself, the voice of _Arthur_ , re-captured his attention.

"Somebody please explain, this is ridiculous."

Having seemingly given up on lost and bemused, the blonde was frowning, a petulant sort of _demanding_ expression settled on his face. Merlin watched him, unable to understand why he couldn't look away, each curve and twist and line of the blonde's face intriguing. He swallowed another mouthful of his coffee - a mocha of course, Perce knew him so well - and tilted his head as his _Magika_ stirred. Interesting.

Still the blonde huffed, looking expectantly around at the group, his eyes alighting on Leon who was just making his way back from the loos. His best friend had almost reached his seat before he noticed the faces in front of him, and he simply wheeled on the toes of one foot, mumbling something about _coffee_ as he walked away towards the register. Merlin watched, definitely interested now, curious as he clocked on to the uncomfortable way in which his friends were glancing around. His _Magika_ was fully alert, intent and aching to leech out, _just a little, please,_ to alight upon the air and see what was happening. Merlin swallowed, grinding his teeth as the longing washed through him.

_What harm could it do?..._

He clutched his mug, forcing another swallow down as his _Magika_ submitted and settled down again. He looked back at the blonde, who was frowning and glaring at Lancelot, who was studiously avoiding his gaze, more interested in the menu in front of him. Merlin knew fine Lance could recite the menu on any given day, even the specials, and so he looked to Perce, who sighed. Very Interesting.

"This is Arthur, Arthur this is... Mer."

Merlin barely had time to wonder at his friend's reluctant tone before the newcomer was speaking again, and his eyes flicked to him without his bidding. He looked confused and miffed, still, but seemed distracted by Perce's words.

"Mer? What kind of name is that?" he queried, even as his years of proper manners had him reaching out a hand to shake.

Merlin obliged eagerly, a wry smile gracing his lips. The touch of the other's palm was familiar even after their first handshake, and his _Magika_ peaked an interest again. He ignored it, meeting the light eyes and snorting.

"It's short for Merlin. Pleased to meet you, Arthur."


	14. Chapter 14

 

 

 

Arthur simply stared.

There was no way.

It just _wasn't_ possible.

Surely?

He watched the dark-haired lad as he looked back at him, and Arthur could see that he was being assessed.

He blinked.

Still the blue eyes bored into his, as though peering into his head. The thought spooked him just a little. The thought that someone could pop open his head and look inside was unsettling. He looked away, a warm flush crawling up his neck. Thank god for collars and his mother's caramel skin.

His eyes settled on Leon, who looked back at him with that apologetic expression that told him that he stood by whatever sin he had committed, even though he was apologising. That settled it for Arthur, the way it always had, and all the doubtful questions and that growing feeling that he was having the piss taken out of him subsided. He met the blue sky eyes again.

"You're serious."

Merlin started, surprised that it had been so easy. This blonde, this _Arthur_ , god he knew an _actual_ Arthur now, had simply accepted his strange name without question. He looked between him and Leon, knowing he was missing something that existed in their glances and sorely tempted to ease his hold on his _Magika,_ _just enough_ to find out…

Before the thought was even finished forming in his head the swirl was dancing from his chest down his nerves to his fingertips, eager and pleading. The sensation was glorious, and Merlin had to bite his tongue and force his eyes to stay open.

His _Magika_ exulted, singing joyfully at the small freedom. The air before him was riddled with secrets, and Merlin immediately regretted allowing the release, clenching his teeth as he forced his focus, avoiding falling into the pit of other people's secrets. His _Magika_ scented the air like a hound on the hunt, translating knowledge into the buzz and tingle that whispered through his blood and into his ears. So much to know in a heartbeat, no barrier to the knowledge… The temptation was fierce.

_~ Leon kept it a secret, they don't have secrets, he's curious; sort of wounded.. Leon knows he was right, he did it because Percy asked, but.. There's a long history here… He sees him as his one true connection to the world, to the species. It's.._ **_please, just a little more_ ** _, it's different, tangled… He likes the others, loves them, really, but Leon is different. There's…_ **_something_ ** _… ~_

Covering his hitching breath with a cough, Merlin reigned the touch in, guilt at having pried settling in his gut even though he knew the others couldn't possibly know. He tipped his head, his tone matter of fact as he answered.

"Yeah, I'm serious."

To Melin's surprise, the blonde's lips quirked up at one side, in an amused half-smile that made Merlin's chest tighten strangely. His _Magika_ stirred, adjusted, turned; restless like a cat that couldn't settle. He _knew_ he shouldn't have allowed it a release, now it would crave it all the time until he convinced it to stay put again. He tried not to let his frown show.

"Well I'll be damned."

Merlin's face twitched, a matching smirk forming on his lips without his bidding as he studied the blonde closely, unable to pin down exactly what it was about him that was so curious.

"I guess, when it comes down to it, it was really only a matter of time."

Arthur nodded, eyes thoughtful as he spoke. Merlin shook his head, an uncertain grin on his face as he appraised the table, gaze questioning.

"How come I never knew? How on earth is it that none of you ever mentioned him? Well weird."

Arthur watched him smile, his abdomen filling steadily with an unknown feeling as he watched Merlin, - _god his name is so ridiculous and yet so… fitting_ \- the dark flicks of his hair tumbling over his forehead as he spoke, eyes alighting on their seemingly mutual friends, their depths littered with an affection that caught Arthur by surprise. Sure, he and his friends had strong friendships, most built on the foundations of mutual banter, and all on a deep sense of trust and acceptance. They were practically brothers, you'd be hard pressed to find any group so loyal, so close-knit.

Arthur was always endlessly and inconceivably grateful for the friends that life had given him, and he didn't always feel he deserved them, the way he neglected them so often. But he'd never seen anyone show such fondness in their eyes the way Merlin did. He watched the exchange and marvelled at the soft and firm affection he exuded, and as he pushed away Gawain as the older man ruffled his curls with his trademark chuckle; " _Keeping you for ourselves.",_ Arthur couldn't help but notice the way Percival looked at him, the way they _all_ looked at him, Merlin's own sentiment mirrored in their own faces. He'd never seen anything like it.

Suddenly, the memory of last night dropped into his head, and he looked curiously at Percival. His friend met his gaze as though he'd felt his eyes on him, and even though his eyes showed he knew he hadn't been honest with him, unlike Leon he didn't adopt even a pretence of apology.

"Actually, Percival warned me off."

The dark head turned to him in surprise, bemusement settling on his features.

"What?"

Arthur looked down at his hands, suddenly uncomfortable meeting the intense blue eyes.

"He, well. Last night, you were in… whichever club I was in at the time…" he looked at Percival with a thoughtful frown, " ** _Jaded_**?"

His friend nodded, resigned. Arthur realised too late that Percival hadn't wanted him to know about Merlin.

"I actually spoke to you on the dance floor, but you were leaving right then. I mean I followed you out, but you were off."

He reddened a little, as though aware how his next words would sound.

"When I asked him about you, he warned me off. Told me " _No"._ Several times, if I remember correctly."

As everybody looked to him, Percival simply shrugged, as though he had no opinion on what he'd done either way.

"Perce? What's that about?"

Merlin's voice was curious but not accusatory, and Percival shrugged again as he answered. Honest and blunt as ever, he laid it on the table.

"Arthur's a player. You're too trusting. And it never came up in conversation."

Arthur, offended, was about to refute Percival's words when he was caught off guard by the lovely blush that stained Merlin's cheeks. His neck flushed, the high planes of his cheekbones reddening in an enchanting manner, reminding Arthur again of fairytale creatures and highlighting the pale bloke's elfish appearance. Merlin bit his lip, and Arthur knew then and there he was lost for good. The bloke was just _too much_. His dark sky eyes shone with something curious as he took in their friend's words, and seemed to accept them straight up.

"Oh. Okay."

And if Arthur wasn't struck enough by the image, when Merlin's gaze flickered up to meet his and he smiled softly, what little remained of Arthur's composure melted away.

He was _so_ fucked.


	15. Chapter 15

Arthur adjusted his hood, tugging it as far down over his eyes as he could, internally bemoaning the weather. It was just that time of year, when it felt like it was _always_ raining, and it could go on for so many weeks and months that you started to forget what the sun even looked like, or felt like on your skin. Or what it was like not to wear layers. Or to not be perpetually damp from your socks to your collar.

He could hear the chatter floating back to him from those in front. The lilting, unpredictable voice of their newcomer, their _Merlin_ , rose and fell as Arthur listened, the tone light and friendly and almost overly-enthusiastic in places. The taller bloke was up in front, alternating between walking backwards and walking forwards, practically skipping as he wove in-between Percival and Gwaine, and although Arthur couldn't really hear the words, he listened anyway. It sounded so ridiculous, but he couldn't get enough of his voice, or his flashing eyes as he grinned that lopsided grin that made Arthur's stomach flip.

Tugging his hood again, Arthur sighed. It was already becoming clear to him that this new bloke was something special, and he couldn't deny his instant attraction. He'd have to be really careful about it too, because if he could see it then you could guarantee the others would too.

Merlin was already exhausted. And he felt utterly guilty about it. It was fantastic, seeing all his friends again, god knows he loved them all. But keeping up his constant focus, paying attention to everything said and smiling and responding was just so much work these days. It was awful, but keeping up his old personality was incredibly draining. When you felt as barren inside as Merlin often did, playing the bright and interesting friend was just too much sometimes. Merlin could feel himself slipping away into the abstract of his thoughts, and the knowledge made his heart hurt. He didn't want to ignore his friends, but finding the will power and energy required to keep up with day to day interactions just wore him out.

Percival sighed. Merlin was disappearing again, right before his eyes. Keeping him engaged was difficult sometimes, and although he understood the strain that Merlin was under, it didn't stop him wishing Merlin were his old self again. His friend had always been funny and bright, perpetually enthusiastic about life. Merlin used to tire them all out with his constant chatter, and they'd always loved him for it. He used to be the brightest personality Percival had ever come across, and he shone in such a way that he didn't simply over-shadow those around him, he lit them up too. It was testament to his generous personality, and Percival was plagued by a damning helplessness as he had watched his friend deteriorate over the space of the last year.

Of all the people Percival had ever met, he could think of none less deserving of this cursed illness than Merlin.

"So we're going out tonight, right lads?"

Arthur rolled his eyes at Gwaine's confident tone. The bloke was so self-assured, so confident that everybody would just do what he wanted because he had the whole attractive rogue look going for him. And it worked too. Arthur couldn't truthfully say he didn't understand it a little.

Gwaine had been amongst the last to join Arthur's group of friends, and there would probably always be that edge to him. Although the lads had simply absorbed him as though he'd always been there, Gwaine would always have that wild side, the side to him that would almost certainly stay foreign to the others. Gwaine was an outsider, even though he was as much at the heart of their friendship as any of the rest of them. It was a complicated thing for Arthur to explain, even within his own head. Gwaine had the mysterious, exotic air of a newcomer that even Elyan had lost.

Even if Arthur lived to be a hundred, he firmly believed that he'd never be able to truly predict Gwaine. He knew the other man was loyal, he knew he'd always have Arthur's back, and because of that he felt a little guilty, but Arthur knew he'd never fully trust him. Not in the blind, trust-you-with-my-life-and-won't-ask-questions way that he did Leon, or Lance. He didn't know what it was, there was just _something_ about Gwaine that Arthur's very nature didn't understand, and that feeling was Reason Number One on his _List Of Reasons Not To Date Gwaine_.

Yepp. He had a list.

It had come into creation when Gwaine had first joined them, their 5th year at Dollar. Arthur, Leon and Lance had formed a tight knit friendship within the confines of the school regime and, reaching the senior phase, were pretty much left alone by anybody who had in the beginning teased them.

Morgana was finishing her 6th year, a very clear Queen Bee on campus, and would be leaving in the winter, having excelled at all of her exams and being in the process of sitting her Advanced Highers to gain early admittance to University. She was the elite, the girl every female in the school wanted to be, and Leon had been very obviously pining for her for the last year. If pressed, Arthur would admit that he'd suspected Leon was soft on his sister since they were in Primary school, Leon just hadn't known it.

Arthur's time in school had become bright, more enjoyable now that he had survived the gruelling social trials of the younger years. He was on the football team, as Striker and Team Captain of course. He held similar positions of excellence on the Golf course and Tennis courts, and he and Leon were in the process of dropping out of the Rugby team. This was partly because their meetings clashed with some of the swimming practice sessions and partly because Arthur felt awful watching Leon's slight frame being attacked on the Rugby pitch. His friend had only joined because he had, and although Arthur was pretty good, it wasn't his thing anyway.

He'd rather do Swimming. Lance's friend Percival had introduced the idea, and Arthur had become convinced that it was exactly what he wanted to do. Percival didn't attend Dollar, but was on the team because he was a bloody amazing swimmer and there was nowhere else locally that had a team. Lance's mother and Percival's were old friends and had re-connected when Lance's family had moved back into the area. He and Percival had become friends practically overnight and Arthur had soon discovered that Percival's opinions weighed heavily with Lance.

Lance had never really gotten into sports and Arthur had never pushed, because it just wasn't his thing. The lad was scrawny, anyway, but he was talented in other extra-curricular areas. Captain of the Library Club Reading Team and President of the Chess Club, he was the go-to for help in English, and excelled in his additional Literary Theory classes. He played First Clarinet in the school Wind Band and preferred to spend his evenings "watching them chase a ball" from his favourite bench, book in hand.

Arthur was debating the risks of continuing his interest in Art and sit his Advanced Higher against the wishes of his father. Of course, Uther would never _forbid_ Arthur to do anything, how would that look? But Arthur knew his father would not be happy to hear of Arthur dropping his chances of an Advanced Higher in Maths to "draw daft pictures and play with Playdough."

Life, even for an uncertain and clever teen was pretty good and they'd finally gotten to the senior years, the part of school that you looked forward to from day one. First years idolised you, teachers finally spoke to you like you were older than ten and middle years respected you.

And then Arthur was approached for the mentoring programme and in his haste to pad his CV did not at all consider the chance that he'd ever be saddled with one of the proper cases.

Which of course, as luck would have it, was exactly what happened.

4th year Gwaine, sixteen and self-assured, did not exactly take well to the news that he was to follow around cocky, straight-laced Arthur Pendragon.

In fact he did quite the opposite. He took the news badly. Two bawling first years and a broken car window later and Gwaine was forced to accept that he was to be baby-sat by the self-entitled son of _Uther Fucking Pendragon_.

Arthur was equally unhappy, indignant and reluctant. The only difference was that Arthur had, to his complete chagrin and utter discomfort, harboured an entirely secret crush on Gwaine St Claire for a year and a half. He'd held out hope since the start that by ignoring Gwaine himself he could stamp out his clear hormonal imbalance and re-instate his personal sanity.

As the two boys spent time together Gwaine's bad-boy front had softened undeniably under Arthur's influence and his anger at just about everything in the world, which he used as a shield, was curbed to a manageable level. Gwaine became an almost well-behaved student and by the time he himself was sitting his sixth year he had mellowed quite considerably, to the point where several of the teachers would swear he was not the same student who had come to them at eight years old. This in itself posed newer problems. No longer angry at the world and insular, Gwaine became relaxed and happy-go-lucky. But hey, who could complain?

(Although officially on paper and his CV Arthur had received full credit for the other boy's transformation, the boys themselves were well aware Lance's quiet and gentle temperament had played a large part in it.)

All that time spent together while Arthur's teenage crush bubbled and grew had birthed _The List_.

Arthur had added to it over the years even though his crush had since faded, and although nowadays he was confident in the knowledge that even his drunk self would never decide to cross that line he kept the list anyway.

Currently on the list, amongst many _many_ other reasons were:

_Number One: The Something._

and

_Number Two: Gwaine is utterly ridiculous and needs to calm the fuck down._

and (an important one when contemplating the emotional aspect of a relationship)

_Number Three: Gwaine doesn't understand the meaning of faithful._

_The List_ had kept Arthur right in weak moments, on the nights where sleep had evaded him and he had taken to contemplating the complexity of life.

Even now, Arthur suspected he was going to need to craft a similar list for Merlin, quite possibly starting with the fact that Percival very clearly did not want Arthur to pursue Merlin.

_Reason Number One: Percival might kill me._

He almost stumbled as an elbow knocked his ribs, and Gwaine's green eyes twinkled mischievously from under his rain-soaked curls.

"You in? Come on, you have to be if you're headed back to Camelot soon."

Ignoring the taunt, he rolled his eyes and nodded, making sure Gwaine could read his exasperation in every inch of his face, and hear it when he answered with " _Fine_ , alright, I'll come."

Snorting at the gleeful way in which Gwaine clapped his hands and began to scheme, Arthur bit back a smile.

There may be that something there that he'd never understand, but Arthur couldn't deny that Gwaine was great, not that he would ever _ever_ tell him so.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (A/N): Hey guys. It's been way too long. I'm so so so so sorry! This isn't much of a chapter, but it's just a little welcome back. I'm working on the next already.  
> Happy reading!

_Reason Number Two: The way he drinks does bad things to my brain._

Arthur watched Merlin from where he sat at their table, conveniently sandwiched between Percival and Lance as though being shepherded while Merlin was around. The brunette was at the bar, waiting with Gwaine as the rogue was served, and he was toying with his straw in a manner that made Arthur feel overly warm. His lips, so dark against his pale skin that they looked almost lurid, curved around the black straw as though it were something to be worshipped. Every time he drew away from a sip his tongue would dart out, probably a habit he didn't even know he had, and flick across the top of the straw to catch stray droplets.

Arthur looked away feeling almost flushed and a little out-of-sorts. He focused on his own bottle, sans the straw at least. He was only on his third and they'd yet to kick in. He was not nearly drunk enough to justify the track his thoughts were taking.

"… come home this time?"

Arthur looked up as he realised someone was speaking. Lance was looking at him with an amused expression tugging at his mouth and Arthur felt his face heat.

"Sorry, what?"

Leon laughed, downing what was left of his pint as he did. Arthur rolled his eyes and aimed for aloof, sipping from his own bottle. Lance simply smiled brighter and Arthur knew they weren't buying it.

"Okay, I wasn't listening, alright? Say again?"

Lance grinned but repeated his question nonetheless.

"What made you decide to come home this time? Trouble with Uther?"

He grimaced as his stomach clenched, and Lance looked guilty right away. The soft-hearted member of their group shot him an apologetic smile as Leon and Percival muttered their agreement. Arthur sighed. He didn't want to talk about it, but clearly that was out the window. He tried anyway.

"I don't really fancy getting into it lads, it'd spoil the mood."

He didn't think he'd get away with it, he very rarely did because his friends were the nosiest bastards he knew, but he was saved by the bell. Or rather, the arrival of Gwaine. The man threw himself into a seat on Percival's other side, leaving little space for the dark-haired bloke who was following him. Merlin didn't seem to mind, and Arthur had to remind himself that they all knew Merlin. Leon shuffled closer to Lance to let Merlin on the end of their horseshoe booth bench.

When he sat down Merlin threw a grateful glance at Leon before his eyes flitted to the rest of them. When they settled on Arthur he smiled gently, and Arthur had never before thought such a small smile could have such an impact. His palms felt sweaty and his heart was racing and he couldn't understand it. It was just a bloke. An attractive bloke no doubt, with eyes like summer skies and unruly dark hair that Arthur's fingers itched to run through, but _just a bloke_.

After an endless moment Merlin looked away almost shyly and Arthur could breathe again, focusing on his drink so as to not give himself away as he reigned himself under control.

_Reason Number Three: If he can do that to me with just a smile I don't know how I'd cope._


	17. Chapter 17

By the time they hit _Jaded_ , Arthur had upped his intake and was feeling pleasantly buzzed. Elyan had broken all their hearts by announcing that he had to be home early because of some made-up-sounding excuse regarding his sister, Gwen. Arthur had learned from _that_ pleading-match that Elyan's sister was none other than Merlin's closest friend.

Small, small world. He felt uneasy to think about the amount of people actively trying to keep any mention of Merlin from him for so long, and to be quite honest he was becoming rather offended that it was all some elaborate measure to stop him from trying to… well. Pull him, or something.

Despite this growing irritation and the disappearance of Elyan, Arthur was in a pleasant mood, because he was pleasantly drunk and Merlin was pleasant company. And pleasant, after the month he'd been having, was _good_.

"Alright Dave?" Percival grinned as their turn came at the door. The bouncer on duty grinned back, brown eyes lighting up and his intimidating demeanour melting away.

Arthur thought he must be new to the bouncer thing, because showing what's under the tough exterior could be a really big mistake. Drunk party-goers whose egos inflated with their blood-alcohol level were one thing. Inebriated punters who thought you had a soft side were quite another.

"Can't stay away?" the man replied, his eyes (probably out of habit, if nothing else) cataloguing the men surrounding his colleague.

Percival snorted and shook his head.

"Feels like I never leave." He thumbed over his shoulder at his friends. "They're alright."

The man's eyes flicked right to Merlin, and there was a heartbeat of time when it looked like he was going to ask him the dreaded, compulsory question. But his gaze returned to Percival instead and he nodded, lifting the rope to admit them. Arthur did not miss the grateful smile Percival gave the man when they passed, and that was his first clue that there was something about Merlin they weren't telling him.

He made up his mind to ask, but promptly forgot as he stepped out of the line for the cloakroom, his eyes finally finding the dance floor in the belly of the club. It was already busy despite the doors only opening a half-hour before, and they'd put on the sweet-smelling smoke machines.

Personally, if it really came down to it, Arthur would rather they didn't use them. While fun at the time they left a sweet smell (almost like that of candy floss and singed paper) on his clothes and skin to greet him the next morning, when all he wanted to do upon waking was pretend he hadn't insulted his liver so badly.. However, it was his experience that the nights the smoke machines were on, potential dates became much more… flirty. Sober Arthur knew the smoke machines were a ploy to up the level of fun in the room and prompt people to drink more.

Drunk Arthur really rather liked the extra attention it got him.

But that night, Arthur was almost dismayed to find himself unable to focus on the people around him as he danced, because every time he picked out a flirtatious smile or caught the dark eyes of someone looking him up and down, his head would turn almost by itself to see how Merlin was doing.

It was entirely annoying, and fast becoming frustrating after an hour. Arthur slunk to the bar, in the end, deciding that he wasn't drunk enough to get this instant attraction thing out of his system, because a truly gorgeous, pixie-like blonde had been eying him more and more boldly in the last ten minutes and she looked pretty close to making her way over.

"I'll have what he's having." came a voice from beside him, and low and behold, there she was.

She turned her face to look at him almost shyly, treading that sweet balance between nervous and coy, and making Arthur sit up to take notice. She had the greenest eyes he'd ever seen beside Morgana's, like summer grass and apples, and her nose had a button-round to it. She smiled, her lips done in a pale lavender and a blue stone on a silver chain around a delicate neck.

Her dress was possibly a million sequins sewn together, each glinting like petrol in sunlight, different fractals of colour as she breathed. She blinked at him, her fingers toying for the straw in the glass the bartender was placing in front of her. She thanked him without even glancing his way, her gaze fixed on Arthur as she placed the straw between her teeth.

"I'm Eleanor." she greeted, voice silky soft and rather musical.

Arthur smiled back, already feel attraction take hold.

"Arthur," he replied, catching the urge to offer his hand at the last second, "pleased to meet you."

Her smile widened as she sipped from her glass, her cheeks rosy under the white light ringing the bar.

"Regal." she teased, eyes glittering.

He shrugged, picking up his own glass and shooting her a confident smile.

"Destined to be King of the business world." he responded with a wink, and as he had expected she laughed.

"Nice. I like it."

Her gaze was expectant, her lipgloss shiny against the dark straw. Arthur drained his glass and placed it back on the bar top. He offered his hand.

"Dance?"

Eleanor grinned, placing her almost-empty glass beside his.

"Thought you'd never ask."


	18. Chapter 18

Merlin closed his eyes as he drank from the glass in his hand, feeling it soak his throat in soothing flame. He'd had enough that the world was disappearing and he welcomed it, toeing the line on embracing it so as to not jerk awareness back into his clutches. The music was loud, the beat rippling through every molecule as the darkness flared with the blue and green strobing. He could hear nothing over the beat, the music, his heartbeat deep and steady.

If there was such a place as heaven, this was it. The ache which had been growing between his bones, like treacle and moss between stones, became easier, faded. Dulled in the face of that push and pull. Merlin drew breath and the music filled him, the soothing promise of oblivion.

Of _escape_.

As this Merlin existed, the aware Merlin slumbered, his _Magika_ wrapped around him in an embrace of protection. Someone touched his arm, but now or before he couldn't tell. The sensory knowledge of fingers on his arm drifted on the sea to him, something he could sense as it crested waves but couldn't truly touch until it reached his island, beached in his sanctuary.

It was a long and drawn-out decision process to open his eyes, instinctual knowledge that the person could be long gone making him reluctant. He was so very tired.

"You doin' okay?"

Merlin met the green doe-eyes of the man holding his arm, and despite the tearing sensation that scathed his entire being as he stepped from his empty world into the real one, Merlin felt a smile on his lips as the friend beside him gave a wide, beaming grin.

"You're pissed." he replied, his tone soft.

Despite the music, Gwaine seemed to hear him just fine, his grin heating, twisting into a smirk that was so _very_ Gawain.

"Slander." the bloke said in response, with a theatrical snort. "I could have you charged for that."

Merlin's burst of laughter seemed to please him further and he shifted his hand from Merlin's arm to around his shoulder in what was, quite frankly, an overly-friendly gesture. Which was fine by Merlin, because he and Gwaine were firm friends. And beside, they had shared very thin personal-space barriers from very early in their friendship. Gwaine was the touching type and although Merlin had never really had people to trade affectionate contact with, (barring, of course, Will,) he had quickly learned that he was that type too.

Gwaine made Merlin feel comfortable in a way few people in his life managed, on a new level even his brother-like closeness with Percival didn't quite manage. And _that_ was saying something, because Perce and the others were like siblings Merlin had never had, the large and boisterous family he hadn't even thought to long for until he'd met them.

Percival was easily the protective older brother, firm but fair and always with Merlin's best interests at heart. He had always looked out for Merlin, sometimes aggressively so, and he never failed to strip Merlin of any anxiety or paranoia with his calm and loyal approach. He was one of those people who made people feel safe and secure, and it almost never failed to work on Merlin. Lance was the one who picked Merlin up and dusted him off when he'd had his heart broken, when he'd been to the doctor for the first time and didn't know what to do with the fear that had been building. Back then Merlin had been alert and wired and _energetic_ in his approach to life, sometimes even almost too positive for the others to bear, and he had been filled with dread and worry and unable to settle, flitting around with his brain going a hundred lightyears an hour and feeling like a hummingbird on caffeine.

Lance had been the one to whom Merlin had cried in the middle of the night after that umpteenth appointment, the one when it was confirmed so uncertainly that he was dying. They didn't have a clue _what_ was killing him, only that it was doing a thorough, bang-up job. Lance was the rare type of person who was completely unafraid of who he was and what he felt. Quiet and gentle by nature he was never secretive, and he never judged how anyone felt, whether the others felt their pain was valid or not. Lance's outlook was that if someone was in pain, they were in _pain_ , no matter whether it was caused by a ridiculously bad one-night stand or a failed exam or stolen wallet. Or death sentence.

Lance was soft-hearted. Leon was level-headed, their peace-maker. He never let himself be riled up, very much like Lance in that way. But where Lance would shy away from conflict, or politely skirt a brewing argument, Leon would stand his ground and calmly tell whoever was being unnecessarily thick that they were an absolute pillock, and after detailing why would promptly turn to the opposite party and tell them they were too were a pillock for indulging the idiot. It took a lot to get Leon angry, and the only time Merlin had truly seen it was when he came clean to the others and told them all that he knew about his condition.

Leon had turned very stoney-faced and he had _fumed_ , to the point where it was the others and Merlin who had to calm him down. He had been livid on Merlin's behalf, furious that his doctors were so unable to diagnose him, angry at whatever it was in Merlin's body that was invading his cells and trying to destroy him. To balance out Leon's anger had been Gwen's tears and her heart-wrenching sorrow, hugging him fierce and hard when he told her seperately, before the others, in the darkness of his front garden. Gwen had whispered broken, determined words about getting him through this and instantly become more of the mother hen she had always been.

Elyan, whom Merlin knew least because he was so often out of town for Uni and various projects, had been quiet and apologetic, soft like his sister while in much better control of his emotions. He never asked Merlin how he was, then or since, but always gave him a good long look with his expressive eyes, never satisfied until Merlin either gave him a smile and nodded, or shook his head and looked away. Elyan cared, he just understood that Merlin didn't want to be babied about it. Gwen of course, got away with that because she was, well… Gwen.

And Gwaine? Gwaine was Gwaine, light-hearted and funny, a solid 85% mischief and cheek, topped up with unwavering loyalty and sheathing a softer side the others swore blind he didn't have. Gwaine was the type who made a joke out of everything, who managed to make light of the worst things in life and turn them somehow good. Or at least, somehow not so bad. Gwaine often annoyed the others with his flippant remarks and off-the-cuff comments, his mouth always moving faster than his brain could tell it to. He had taken to Merlin fast, dizzyingly fast, and Merlin had, despite first impressions being a little dodgy, warmed to him with equaling speed. Gwaine was warm and boundless, a man with no respect for rules if he felt he need break them, one of those incredibly rare, _make-you-laugh-when-you're-angry, can't-stay-pissed-at-me-even-though-you-want-to, kick-his-arse-into-next-week-for-even-trying-to-hurt-you_ kind of friends.

Gwaine was rarely serious, forever with a twinkle in his eyes and a roguish grin on his face and Merlin _loved_ Gwaine, with a fibre-deep intensity that had surprised him so much it was more than a little frightening at first, because despite Merlin's friendly and welcoming nature he wasn't all that used to having people to love. Those he did have he loved fiercely, enough so to frighten potential friends and get his arse kicked at his old school. Merlin was an enigma, so incredibly friendly and open and yet such a loner it startled him to realise that this group of lads, who'd known each other pretty much all their lives, would even give him a second glance.

Gwaine was a lot like Merlin, or the Merlin who had existed before. He understood that there was a natural order to things while still being able to question almost everything. Despite not following any particular religion he was keen on justice and had talked at length with Merlin over a shared love for the Chaos Theory. Gwaine might be more interested in it because he believed it to be his handbook in paying back those who wronged people unnecessarily, but he shared many of Merlin's opinions and values, and his sense of humour was of course absolutely minted. He was easy and warm, friendly and gleeful with an air of childlike joy in the little things that drew Merlin like a moth to a flame.

There was no denying the deep and natural chemistry between them, something they had both separately acknowledged but never acted upon, whether through some strange chance of luck or, more likely, because Merlin was the naive and cut-and-dry sort who had never been much of a party person and just wanted someone to settle with when he was ready, and that Gwaine saw this and understood it. Gwaine was a flirtatious wanderer who pulled men and women like nobody's business, and while he had indeed been very open and straightforward about his attraction to Merlin, he had never once made a play, respect and love for Merlin making sure he never did. It didn't stop his flirtatious comments or the way he stole into Merlin's personal space in ways that were probably completely inappropriate, but that was very often a two-way street and Merlin was completely okay with the way things were between them.

"I'd like to see you try, mate. Nobody'd believe you." Merlin shot back, feeling Gwaine's infectious positivity sweep through him much more effectively than any of his doctor's prescribed medications.

Gwaine pulled a drunkenly-exaggerated expression, pressing a hand over his heart as he swayed against Merlin's side.

"I'm wounded," he wailed, "that you would have so little faith in me." His eyes glittered and he added, as an afterthought, "Cameras, Merlin. Cameras everywhere."

He looked up at the lighting, at the shadowed ceiling. Merlin grinned and looked with him, humouring.

"Best not get up to anything, then." Merlin replied with a knowing grin.

Gwaine turned bright, mischievous eyes his way once more.

"You had something in mind?" he asked, wiggling his eyebrows and drawing close as though in invitation.

Instead of pulling away like he might with any other bloke, Merlin only laughed and pressed a hand against Gwaine's shoulder.

"Dream on, St Claire." he replied into Gwaine's ear, completely unfazed by the way his mouth brushed Gwaine's cheek as they were jostled by the crowd.

Gwaine simply chuckled in response, drawing Merlin into a tight embrace with the arm still around his shoulders. Merlin allowed it, tilting his head to rest on the curve of Gwaine's neck, as the brunette slid his free arm around Merlin's waist. Merlin's arms shifted too, settling in a close tangle against Gwaine's back and he let himself relax into it. Gwaine swayed them, almost-dancing and yet not really, simply following a rhythm of their own. Merlin closed his eyes and although with a warm, living, breathing body pressed all against his own he couldn't slide back into his ocean completely, the same enveloping relief fell upon him once more.

Gwaine, whether too drunk to do anything else or through his frighteningly deep understanding of Merlin, said nothing, and instead he held Merlin close and moved them in tandem, swaying and turning with a sedate leisure that suited Merlin just fine. Gwaine's contact kept him grounded and his presence kept him safe, and Merlin allowed the easing of his pain to continue, feeling his weight grown slowly as exhaustion began to take hold once more.

Whether it was an hour or three hours escaped Merlin's knowledge, but eventually Gwaine bumped their heads together in a deliberate manner that shone light through the blanket of Merlin's barely-awareness. He grumbled, but Gwaine only sighed and shifted against him, pulling to the side. His voice was coaxing as he spoke.

"Come on, Merlin. you're asleep on your feet. Let's get you lying down, yeah?"

Merlin whined, or might have whined, because he was drifting into consciousness incredibly slowly. Normally a welcome pace, right now it wasn't, due to the impatient awareness that Gwaine was there and that the waking world existed so assuredly.

"Please…" was all he managed, but Gwaine knew by now, understood the way he was so good at doing.

"Sorry, mate. We'll just go now, yeah?"

Merlin sighed and slumped, and Gwaine took most of his weight without protest, as though it were perfectly normal for him to do so. He guided Merlin through the crowd, and Merlin opened his eyes after a few moments, dreamily taking in some of what was going on around him. Gwaine was stopping to speak to the others, exchanging low words with Percival, with Leon.

Gwaine was taking him away, he gathered, and Merlin found he was pretty much okay with that.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As always, your comments make my day and you guys rock!  
> Happy Reading!

Percival gave the girl beside him at the bar a tight smile, unable to find the heart to tell her she wasn't anywhere close to being his type. She had engaging hazel eyes that shone under a layer of coal-dust eyeshadow, darker still against the delicate trails of glitter across the curves of her cheeks. Her lipstick was pale and natural and she wore her hair in a soft curl, loose and begging to be touched.

Unlike the blonde he had noticed draping herself over Arthur on the dance floor, the young woman beside Percival was dressed modestly, a well-fitting black shirt open at her collar and buttoned to show just a touch of cleavage. She leaned against the bar top in tight-fighting plum skinny jeans, and he grinned to see the toes of black converse under the hem.

She totally would be his type, if he were interested in women.

Unlike the almost predatory streak Percival had fought off in women before, she displayed a warmth that invited him to talk to her anyway, and he wondered whether she controlled it.

"Freya." she smiled, reaching out offer her hand.

"Percy." he replied, taking her handshake.

She smiled, turning then to thank the bartender as he placed her drink beside her. Percival couldn't help but like the way she did it, genuinely, like he'd done her a great favour. He also saw the way the hardened man behind the bar flushed a little, startled to be noticed. Percival could see the appeal in Freya right away. When she turned back to him he saw Owain pause for a moment, like he'd forgotten what he was supposed to be doing, before lifting a new glass.

"Sorry, could you repeat that? I think I might have missed it."

"Percy." he complied, and she smiled again in greeting.

"My friend has a mate called Percy." she said, taking a sip from her drink and smiling like it met whatever standard she was looking for.

"It's a good name." he responded with a grin, thanking the bartender when he brought his pint over.

Owain waved his card away with a grin, and Percival rolled his eyes. Owain rarely allowed him to pay for his drinks, because Percival was a dab hand at keeping out the wankers who caused him trouble.

"It is." Freya smiled back, her eyes wandering over the crowd as a new song started.

Percival watched her, his ability to read people making it easy to see that she liked the song that had come on. He said as much and she smiled, her eyes looking at him almost apologetically.

"That obvious?"

Percival shrugged, taking a swig from his glass.

"Only because it's my job to read people."

She tipped her head a little to the side and smiled, her expression telling him she wasn't sure she believe a word of it, but she didn't argue. Percival raised an eyebrow and she laughed, a tinkly, sweet sound that Percival rather liked. He took a long draw from his glass and sat it back down on the beermat. He tipped his head towards the floor as the first verse was kicking into gear.

"Dance?" he asked, not really sure why he had.

Freya blinked, in what Percival was pretty sure was surprise, before ducking her head a little.

"Oh, that's okay." she smiled, understanding, returning to her drink, her eyes drifting towards the floor once more.

That decided things for Percival. He took one last swig from his beer and left the last inch or so behind as he stepped away and offered her his hand.

"Come on. You clearly want to dance, and they do say gay men are born to do just that."

If Freya was surprised or disappointed by his words she didn't show it, instead brightening as she placed her glass down.

"I'll replace that when we come back." he added, her flashing eyes welcoming and friendly.

Freya laughed again and took his hand, allowing him to lead her through the crowd. If the significant height-difference bothered her she didn't let on, instead beaming and laughing as Percival twirled her around and tried to copy the subtle little movements she made. She seemed the quiet, shy sort, and Percival found himself relaxing in her presence much quicker than expected.

Then again, he'd expected to send her packing when he first noticed her glancing at him at the bar.

Even as he was dancing and trading words with Freya he kept an eye on Merlin, watching the people who seemed to spare him more than a first glance, seeing the way two tried to get his attention to no avail. When Gwaine stepped up, Percival felt himself relax. Despite Gwaine's atrocious track record and his sometimes painfully obvious attraction to Merlin, Percival had never needed to step between them. It had come to him as a surprise, and the others too though they were reluctant to admit it, but the Gwaine they had known since school hadn't tried to pounce on the scrawny raven-haired bloke the first chance he could.

Instead the lads had watched in a strange sort of surprise as Gwaine and Merlin formed a bond that would make brothers envious. They were so different and yet so very alike, and Merlin seemed to have some magical way of dealing with Gwaine's shenanigans that the rest of them wished they could learn. Merlin was just as likely to get irritated with the rogue's dramatics as anyone else and yet somehow he always managed to somehow deflect and form Gwaine's complaining, his tantrums and stupid plans, into something less offensive. And all without Gwaine even really fighting him.

It was the sort of thing that, if he hadn't already decided he liked Merlin, would have convinced him.

Percival watched as Gwaine broke through whatever walls it was that Merlin constructed when he went out, and he watched Merlin respond, watched his stance change as thought Gwaine's very existence made him more… alive, connected. More _there_. Since Merlin's diagnosis, Gwaine's ability to connect with him had been crucial on the very bad days. The ones when Hunith would phone Percival with apologetic words, her tears audible down the crackly phone-line.

Those were the days that Percival would hunt Gwaine down wherever he might be, regardless of whether that was in the arms of some random girl in his entirely too-messy flat, and drag his arse over to Merlin's house asap. Sometimes Percival could get Merlin out of the blank, _is-he-really-in-there_ state, shake the stupor from him or at least help Hunith with something while Gaius tried. But Gwaine's track record was better, and Percival was not too prideful to realise it and us it to their advantage.

By the time Gwaine had hefted Merlin's minimal weight and found him, Percival was back at the bar, keeping an eye on Freya's drink while she went to the loo. Gwaine was taking Merlin home, and by home he meant Percival's, which was not only closer but also missing a certain Hunith. They all knew, even drunk, that a night off was something Hunith needed, even if she always argued against them. She trusted them to take care of Merlin and Percival, without a mother of his own, saw her very much like a parent, just as she treated him like a son.

Gwaine raised an eyebrow at the two drinks beside Percival.

"Got yourself a bloke, have you?"

His grin was wide and there was a bright gleam in his eye. Percival rolled his eyes, but didn't dare give him the shove he deserved, for fear of knocking Merlin over.

"No. Her name's Freya."

Gwaine's eyebrows shot through the room and the grin widened, toothy and leery.

"Well, I always suspected you were more into birds than you let on."

Percival ignored the waggled eyebrows, lifting his keys from his pocket and making a shooing motion.

"Will you manage? You're pissed."

Gwaine simply gave a very Gwaine-like bray of laughter and tucked Percival's keys into his pocket.

"Course I will. Besides, I got Merls to keep me right, don't I?"

Percival snorted, but Gwaine was already steering their drunken friend towards the exit, singing at the top of his lungs to a song that wasn't even playing overhead.

"One of yours, then?" asked a friendly voice beside him, and he turned to flash Freya a welcome-back smile.

"Yeah. Drunk out his plant pot, taking our mate home."

Freya took the drink he offered her, sipping delicately from the straw.

"He drunk too?"

Percival nodded, trying not to think about the fact that Merlin had a valid reason to be. Freya hummed sympathetically in response, her eyes floating over the mass f bodies on the dance floor. Percival took a drink before following her line of sight.

"You here with drunk mates too, by any chance?"

She smiled, tipping her head towards the floor as the green in her eyes was picked up by the strobing.

"Yepp. He's completely out of his tree, but he's much more of a party person than me."

Percival picked out the bloke he thought she was referring to, average height and built slim. Not slim like Merlin, slim like Gwaine. Lean. He had thick brown hair cut so it fell in his eyes, and wore black skinnies and a button-down burgundy shirt. There were knotted leather bands filling the skin of one wrist and half-way to the elbow, similar to ones that Merlin owned. When the blue light bathed the bloke, Percival could pick out the way his lips twisted, sultry and inviting as he danced with the people around him. Percival had to admit he wasn't a bad looking bloke.

"Afraid he's straight as an arrow, that one." Freya added, keeping her gaze on her drink when he turned to glance at her, but he could see the playful smile around her straw and wasn't fooled.


	20. Chapter 20

Arthur would never admit to being anything less than utterly focused on the blonde who was flashing him confident smiles and fluttering her startling eyes. Moving against him on the dance floor. He had been raised a gentleman, after all, and it would be rude to ignore someone he was supposed to be paying attention to. But it didn't escape his attention that Merlin, with his raven curls and his pale skin, was even more ethereal when shrouded in shadows and subject to the cool lights of the nightclub.

It was something that made Arthur's mouth a little dry, and his stomach knot, just a tad.

When Eleanor turned her face to give him a calculatedly attractive _come-hither_ look, all Arthur's brain seemed like it wanted to do was remind him of the very different (and yet somehow _just_ as attractive) smile that had lurked around Merlin's mouth the whole evening in the pub. When Eleanor flicked a sultry look at him from under hooded eyes, before he could stop himself he'd thought of Merlin's shy half-glances from across the table.

It was strange, this sudden intense _want_ , and he couldn't explain it away, not even when he took into account that the bloke was just his type. That wasn't it. Merlin stood almost centre in the floor, surrounded by people, and yet he looked utterly alone. He was relaxed and seemed incredibly open, and yet for some reason also unapproachable, like he'd penned himself off.

It was something that even the gorgeous Eleanor couldn't distract him from, not even when she began to dance in such a manner that she seemed glued to him from hip to shoulder. Not even when she giggled under the loud thump of a new song Arthur rather liked, her mouth passing close to his face as she sang along in an incredibly enticing way. Arthur couldn't understand how he could be allowing himself to pass this opportunity up.

It had been months since he'd had any sort of chance to steal a social life for himself, at least a year since he'd had a date with anyone, if you didn't include the women who accompanied him to business-related charity events and dinners. And Arthur most definitely didn't count those, because one was a close friend who'd known him since their time in nappies and he knew for a fact he was not her type. Not unless his anatomy undertook an intense makeover. And the other was his _sister_.

Arthur forced his attention back on Eleanor with a growing feeling of guilt. She was incredibly pretty, her clingy dress showing off all the right curves and all the right stretches of skin and yet-

And yet Arthur's eye was drawn to the utterly average-looking bloke in the faded jeans and worn trainers. Merlin's hair was a tangled mess and he still had his hoody on. He hadn't made any sort of effort at all. He also hadn't glanced Arthur's way once since they'd come in, as though the friendly, glittery-eyed lad from earlier had stepped through the doorway and passed the cloakroom and someone else had emerged onto the dance floor. He'd shown no interest in Arthur at all in over two hours.

So why was he commanding Arthur's gaze so expertly?

"You're either distracted or completely sloshed." came a sweet voice in his ear, and Eleanor was smiling when he looked at her.

She cocked her head to one side, one arm around his waist - _when had that happened?_ \- and the fingers of the opposite hand dancing up his wrist to his forearm. Her eyes were coy and interested and Arthur felt himself grinning back automatically.

"Bit of both." he answered smoothly, winding his arms around her waist and swinging her in a half-circle, effectively removing the willowy bloke from his direct line of sight. Eleanor laughed, and responded by shifting closer to him.

"Alright." she shouted back playfully over the roaring baseline. "I've got catching up to do."

In response Arthur laughed, pushing the strange new bloke from his mind. He tipped his face against Eleanor's cheek, her breath hot against his neck.

"I can help with that."

When she turned her face in a universal, _accidentally-on-purpose_ move and brushed her lips against Arthur's, he didn't pull away. She pressed her hands upon Arthur's shoulders and pulled herself up onto her toes to deepen the contact. Her mouth was hot and sweet, tasting like whatever syrup had been laced in her cocktail. Arthur drew her in with the arm around her waist, taking some further control of the kiss as her head tipped back to adjust.

By the time she drew away Arthur's head was fuzzy with a pleasant, post-kiss buzz, the excitement and attraction of a new experience fizzing through him. Eleanor drew back and lifted her eyes a little, deliberately sultry in a way that made Arthur's abdomen tighten. Her lips stretched in a pleased manner, a soft bite on her lower lip, a shy-coy glance up at him as she dropped. Arthur knew the game, he knew the moves and he knew they worked. He _let_ them work.

"I'll take a drink now, then." she said.

She took his hand with a playful grin and Arthur followed her to the bar, his pulse alive and running above average, anticipation in his gut at where this would lead. He knew she'd confirmed her interest and he _knew_ he was in.

He'd managed to stay attentive, focused. To give her the attention she deserved. He _had_. Right up until Eleanor lead him straight through a tight group of people, right up until the bloke hefting up his mate bumped into him and swung around to flash a distracted, cheery _sort-of-apologetic-sort-of-don't-give-a-rat's-arse_ grin, right up until he registered that it was _Gwaine_  and that the mate who's weight he was supporting was none other than the bloke who'd been compromising Arthur's usually flawless style all night.

And Arthur was right back where he'd started, regardless of the confident tug of the hand holding his own. He watched Gwaine guide Merlin, watched them pause once, then a second time at the bar, Percival's broad shoulder's easily picked out despite the irregular lighting flashes. The shock of white glittered in Merlin's down-turned head and Arthur had a bizarre, sudden, nostalgic longing to see Merlin doused in moonlight.

His mouth was dry, his heart hitching and his free hand had a tremor that danced from fingertips to elbow and back. He couldn't take his eyes from the sight of the two disappearing through the door, unable even to think how odd it was to see Percival slide a drink across the bar top to a pretty brunette when normally women in clubs scared him senseless. He couldn't even pay proper attention to the very pretty woman still holding his hand, because he came abruptly to the same conclusion he'd been arriving at all damn day.

He was utterly _fucked_ , and it was all because of Merlin.


	21. Chapter 21

By the time the music died and the lights in the club were raised brightly, drowning out the secretive, loud and brave atmosphere with fluorescent, blinding _life_ , Percival was about ready to go home anyway. Freya had left mere moments before, politely turning down Percival's offer to help her drag her boisterous, drunken mate outside. She had at least accepted his offer to have Owain call her a taxi, and she'd shyly given him her number.

"I know you're not… You know." she said, her cheeks turning pink and her gaze flitting around him. "But if you… Well, felt like a new friend, or something, I'd um. Well, I'd answer the phone."

It had all been rather lovely, and Percival was reminded that outside of growing up with Gwen and his friendship with Morgana, he knew very few women. Perhaps it was about time he made friends with one who wouldn't threaten to kill him if he teased her. Or better yet, wouldn't have the capability.

"I'll phone." he'd answered her, noting the way her eyes lit, pleased. "We'll do coffee or something."

"Or something." she'd smiled, and Percival had been sure he'd made the right call in not building a wall between them at the bar mere hours before.

He was not nearly drunk enough for it to be excused as him handing out his number willy-nilly, and he didn't think Freya was drunk either. She was just… a pretty lovely person who had indulged in conversation with him. In a nightclub. If that didn't pin her as his type of person, not much else would.

Now he looked around the groaning drunken crowd, picking out Leon's curls and Lance's easy stance. They were standing together and performing almost identical motions of rubbing over their ears as though the abrupt loss of sound could be shaken loose. Arthur was sucking face with a blonde Percival had seen many times before, and he cringed internally for his friend. She wasn't unpleasant, really, just not one to ever have the need to buy her own drinks very often.

Then again, Arthur wasn't one to look for something further anyway, always arguing that between the business and all the other things he was expected to handle he didn't have time for a long-term partner. Percival wondered if he was the only one who knew it was probably more to do with Uther and winning the man's approval than anything else. Arthur had fought to meet his father's sometimes ridiculously high expectations. It made perfect sense to Percival that Arthur could be afraid to take anyone home lest Uther not find them _worthy_.

He was pretty sure that the head of the Pendragon business would have rather strong opinions on what or who he felt were good for Arthur. Or rather, good for image and for the business and the family as a whole. Leon had been terrified to come clean about his relationship with Morgana. Percival remembered - with great amusement - the amount of reassuring Lance had done, convincing Leon that regardless of his opinion Uther wasn't going to chop his head off. In the end it was Arthur who'd lost patience with his best mate and spilled the beans over dinner one Sunday, and everything had been fine. Uther approved of Leon as Arthur's life-long friend and was more than pleased that he'd now taken on Morgana as well. Of course, Leon had given him reproachful looks across the table, which had gradually softened into grateful glances by the end of the meal.

Morgana, on the other hand, still hadn't really forgiven him. And that had been well over three years ago.

Percival had always found the story amusing, because Arthur was, excluding Leon, the most patient person alive when it came to Morgana. Which really wasn't all that patient at all. And in his dating life it was pretty much the same. Arthur had himself convinced he didn't have time for anything long-term or too committed, and although Percival had never been one to judge, when it came to Merlin he wouldn't have it. Especially when you took into account Merlin's illness.

Percival shook himself before following that train of thought, because he knew he wouldn't like where it went. The spot in his chest where his heart was had already begun to ache a little, and if he hadn't stopped he knew it would have begun to hurt more than it should, and in turn become the anger they were all fighting on Merlin's behalf.

He strode across the floor, alerting Leon and Lance to his presence and jerking his head in the direction of their lucky friend. Lance turned a little pink and shook his head with a soft smile. Leon rolled his eyes and tutted playfully.

"Typical King." he said, and Percival nodded, an expression taking over his face that wouldn't be out of place on Gwaine's.

"Oh, don't." Lance asked, his eyes darting sympathetically in the blonde's direction.

Percival only sniggered, and turned to wander over. Arthur and his _date_ seemed completely oblivious to the fact that the lights were up and the music gone. The club was almost empty now, drunk stumblers taking longer to leave than Percival's patience sometimes allowed. Tonight he didn't care, because he'd had enough to drink that he was relaxed and being aware that he wasn't on duty helped.

He bumped into Arthur with a little more force than was strictly necessary, sending the pair stumbling apart but careful enough to catch them both before they fell. He released the girl quickly and slung an arm around Arthur's shoulders, bracing himself for his ire.

"Heyyy, Arthur! You coming home- _Whoops!_ "

He made a show of looking at the confused young woman.

"Sorry, love." he said, allowing his voice to slur just a little. "Did I bump you?"

Her face swayed between _that's-okay-I'm-not-bothered_ and _oi-you-pig-watch-where-you're-going_ , and back again. Percival's size probably had something to do with that.

"Come on you," he turned to Arthur before she could say anything. "we're leaving now."

Arthur turned eyes on him that Percival had expected to be much more hazy.

"'Kay." he answered, turning to wander a little as though expecting Percival to guide him.

The bouncer walked behind him, glancing back at the bemused girl behind them, who looked like she wasn't sure she'd been insulted or not. He looked back at Arthur, slinging an arm over his shoulders in a very _Gwaine_ -like move, biting his tongue when it wanted to ask Arthur what was up with him, instead deciding not to look a gift-horse in the mouth. They met with the others and collected their coats, and all the time Arthur was humming to himself and seeming entirely non-plussed that Percival had just torn him from the mouth of an admittedly attractive blonde.

It was decidedly odd behaviour, as Percival had expected a fight.

By the time they reached Percival's, Arthur's humming had fallen silent and he was swaying much more obviously, his eyelids heavy. Percival waved Leon off, assuring Lance that he wasn't offended that he'd be bunking with Leon instead of him. They promised to meet for a greasy lunch the next day, once they'd slept the usual twelve hours or so.

Percival steered Arthur away from the stairs when they got through the front door.

"Spare room." Arthur yawned in response, turning to give him a wounded look.

"Taken." Percival told him, not apologetic in the slightest. "Merlin has dibs."

Arthur frowned, but his expression soon cleared as he turned towards the living room.

"Couch." he said instead, waving a hand half-heartedly in Percival's direction.

Percival ignored it, rolling his eyes and shucking his jacket off to toss it over the handle of his hoover. When he turned back towards his friend, Arthur had dropped his jacket over the arm of the chair beside the window, toed his shoes off under the edge and dropped himself on the four-seater sofa, his face already relaxed and pressed into one of the cushions. Percival left him, wondering just how stressful Arthur's life had been recently for him to just drop like a stone. He wasn't usually like that, even drunk. Arthur and Gwaine had always been the last asleep after a night out, bantering in playful and irritated tones (playful for Gwaine and _I-think-I'm-annoyed_ for Arthur) long into the early morning.

On the way to his own bedroom Percival paused, ducking his head carefully around the ajar door to the spare room, rolling his eyes and fighting a fond smile.

Merlin was curled in a ball under the covers, his shoulder still clad in his shirt, his back to the door and his chin tucked under the duvet. What was visible of his face was a soft rose and his hair was a tangled, flicky mess against the pale pillow. Gwaine was sprawled fully-clothed atop the duvet, one arm cocked under his pillow and the other thrown protectively over Merlin. At least he'd managed to kick his shoes off. He was snoring, something that would irk Percival to no end - not that he'd spent much time thinking about it, mind you - but didn't seem to bother Merlin at all.

They often ended up like this after nights out. Gwaine's odd and still surprising soft side came out to play when he was drunk, but only seemed to apply to Merlin. The usually devil-may-care bloke came off as a clingy boyfriend to anyone not in the know, particularly since Merlin had told them about… Well.

Percival closed the door, looking forlornly at the empty painted surface for a moment before turning towards his own bed. It wasn't like they were going to lose Merlin in the middle of the night. The doctor had at least told them it was looking like a slow, drawn-out process was ahead of him, ahead of _them_. He'd still be there in the morning.


End file.
